


Still Here (I'm Not A War Machine)

by LadyZaniahStrangeling



Series: Lay Your Weapons Here [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: AU, Hobbit Kink Meme prompt, M/M, Photographer!Dean, Recreational Drug Use, Soldier!Adam, Soldier!Aidan, Soldier!Graham, Soldier!Luke, Vietnam War, Vietnam War!AU, based on Dean's photoshoot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-11
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-11 12:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 61,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/798673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyZaniahStrangeling/pseuds/LadyZaniahStrangeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt on the RPF section of the HobbitKinkMeme:
> 
> "Inspired by Dean's latest photography works that included some of the hobbit cast dressed as American soldier in Vietnam war.  
> So in this AU Aidan is a young soldier and Dean is a war photographer, they met and sparks fly.  
> ... Anything really I just want Soldier!Aidan and War photographer!Dean."
> 
> I hope this is what you want.
> 
> I also apologise for any mistakes, be they grammatical or factual; I knew nothing about the Vietnam War before this, so a lot of it is based on what I was able to find out from brief research. I have changed some things to suit the story though, but I'm sorry if I've used the wrong terminology (especially where the military is concerned; this is all new), and I'd also like to apologise if some of the soldiers' slang or views (eg. "gooks" for Asians) is offensive - I've simply included it because of the specifity to the era and relevance of trying to keep this story as factual as possible.
> 
> There will be links to posts on my tumblr with extra information (be it pictures that inspired the chapter, explanations, etc.) for the various chapters of this fic throughout the posting of it, and they can be found in the 'Notes' section of the chapter that concerns them.

The man pauses, adjusting the set-up of his camera as the golden-haired goddess in front of him stretches and slips into another pose, her movements as fluid as water. She glances up at him from beneath her mascaraed eyelashes, her meaning as clear as day, but he ignores her, focusing on his task at hand. Offering a few brief and terse suggestions about her position, he quickly finishes the shoot with a sigh, running his fingers through his short blonde hair.

“That’s it,” he says to the waiting model. “We’re done.”

She pouts, knowing how to arrange her face perfectly so that she can get what she wants. “Already?” There’s a slight childish whine to her voice, but the man ignores her, focusing on packing up his equipment. He’s so engrossed in his work that he doesn’t notice the woman move silently and stealthily towards him, and he jerks when he feels her slim and cool hand wrap around the crease of his bent elbow. He twists away from her, backing away hurriedly and blinking against the soft and warm afternoon sunlight that filters in through the towering French windows that line one wall of the warehouse he uses as his workplace.

Not noticing his discomfort or choosing to ignore the obvious signs that _he’s just not fucking interested_ , the model starts a slow and ‘sexy’ strut towards him, biting her lip and saying suggestively, “I thought we could try something… _different_.” Her hands fly like delicate birds to the strap of the elegant evening gown that clads her near-anorexic body, conveying her meaning as she keeps moving forward, her steps even, slow and deliberate. And if he hasn’t understood what she’s talking about, the exposed flesh of her breast would have made it obvious when she starts to slide a strap of her dress down over her shoulder.

_Fuck,_ is the only thing that he can think of. He doesn’t know what to make of the whole situation, only hired by the model to take shots of her to add to her portfolio. It’s like she thinks he’s an elite professional. Bloody hell, he’s just a humble photographer whose only claim to fame is some shots he took back in the Vietnam War as he followed a rag-tag bunch of soldiers. He swallows hard when their faces swim up from the depths of his memory: hardened and weary older men, ageing more with every day they spent in that fucking jungle, the lines of worry and anxiety that were etched on their forehead only succeeding in shortening their lifespan and creasing their face permanently; broken and defeated young men, who were really only boys trying to play dress-up as they watched their friends die around them, the ugliness and horror of death staining their souls until they could no longer close their eyes without seeing a fragmented movie reel of the maliciousness and evilness of war. Yes, they were the worst ones. They came home scarred and destroyed – beyond repair for some.

That was if they came home at all.

With a shuddering gasp of breath that is both ragged and desperate, he backs away from the model again, firmly shaking his head and sending the reluctant and disappointed girl on her way. He doesn’t realise that he’s been holding his breath for the duration of her exit until he slumps against the closed door, pressing his forehead to the cold surface and listening to her distant footsteps fade away.

It’s only when he can’t hear anything anymore besides the growl of traffic that he pushes himself upright and runs his hand through his hair again. It’s only then that he pulls a faded photograph from the pocket of his jeans and stares at in in the dimming light. It’s only then does he run his thumb absent-mindedly over the edges that have tattered with age and frequent handling as his eyes hold the gaze of a dark-haired, handsome young soldier. A gaze that speaks of raw human emotion and untold melancholy.

And that’s when he lets himself sink to the ground, the door at his back, and remember, drawn in by the haunted-ness in the soldier’s eyes, the hoarse yells of men and resounding gunshots that reverberate endlessly in the jungles of Vietnam.


	2. 1 - Madness Is Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of this fic, I've changed the nationality of everyone but Aidan and Dean to American. I also forgot to mention previously as a little disclaimer, but part of the title comes from Fightstar's 'War Machine', which has been quite influential in certain aspects of this fic.

“Mr O’Gorman, I presume?”

Dean turned at the sound of a voice behind him, clutching his camera bag tightly to his chest. Eyeing the young, dark-haired soldier behind him, he nodded. “Yeah, that’s… that’s me.”

Lifting a cigarette to his lips, the soldier copied Dean’s nod. “Right.” He blew smoke out of his mouth, gently dislodging the cigarette with his index and middle finger. Green eyes ran up and down the length of Dean’s body, sizing him up. Dean shifted uneasily under the weight of the man’s stare. “Private Evans,” he said by way of introduction, scratching absent-mindedly at his sparse black beard with the hand that didn’t contain his cigarette.  “You’re s’posed to come with me,” he added.

Dean swallowed hard, feeling beads of sweat trickle slowly down between his shoulder blades. He’d be lying if he said that he was simply perspiring from the sheer humidity of Vietnam’s jungles. He was absolutely shitting himself – his excitement from a few days ago had given way to pure terror as he’d arrived at the army base where he’d rendezvous with one of the men from the squad he was assigned to. As a photographer-turned-photojournalist, Dean had been sent by the newspaper he worked for to cover the current situation of the war. It was his first major assignment, and at first, the only worries Dean had had were about fucking up the story somehow, but now? Well, he was more worried about being killed, jumping like a frightened rabbit at the far off explosions and gunfire he could faintly hear in the distance.

Private Evans studied him as he flinched at a particularly loud detonation, not even twitching a muscle as he took another drag of his cigarette. There was a certain steeliness in his eyes, one that Dean supposed had been put there not long after being exposed to the conditions of war. Dropping his spent cigarette in the dirt and crushing it with the heel of his military-issued boots, Evans straightened up, raising an eyebrow at Dean when he didn’t receive a response. Sighing, he picked up Dean’s duffel bag, which contained his clothes and other possessions beside his cameras that he’d brought with him, starting off for the truck that would take them to where the rest of his squad was currently residing at a smaller camp. Following the soldier, Dean’s eyes darted everywhere, trying not to stare at Evans’ gun that was slung casually over his shoulder for too long, nor the sash of ammunition he wore draped over his chest. Instead, he tried to slow his breathing in the hopes of stopping it from becoming erratic, and focused on placing one foot in front of the other, wondering just _what the fuck have I gotten myself into?_

Muscles strained beneath Private Evans’ shirt as he swung the heavy duffel bag into the bed of the jeep-like truck they’d be riding in. He turned and reached for the bags that held Dean’s cameras and equipment, dropping them in next to his duffel bag. Dean cringed at the carelessness the soldier had shown with his equipment. If everything turned out to be broken, then his trip out here had been for nothing.

Evans climbed into the back of the truck and leaned against the sides, stretching his long legs out in front of him. Dean hesitated before following suit, sinking down opposite the young man. With a few words to the driver and the other soldier in the passenger seat from Evans, the truck shuddered to life and began moving. Private Evans shrugged off his gun and loaded it, pulling on his helmet and securing it in place. Catching Dean’s panicked look, he explained, “We’re not expecting trouble – the track should still be safe from when we last used it an hour or so ago – but you can’t be too careful. Those gooks could be anywhere.”

Dean frowned at the term, not understanding. Seeing his confusion, Private Evans was quick to elaborate. “Asians. Viet Cong. The enemy. You know.” Then he was silent and he didn’t say anything else for the remainder of the trip. The only part of his body that moved were his eyes, flickering back and forth rapidly as he scouted for any sign of ‘gooks’.

Much to Dean’s relief, they made it to the HQ camp of the small squad of soldiers that he’d been placed with, as well as others. Over the next two weeks, he would document nearly their every move, capturing photographs of the men relaxing, preparing to relieve other squads, and even perhaps the periphery of a battle or two. Dean was sort of nervous about how the shots would turn out; he was more a portrait kind of guy rather than someone who always took action shots and got in the thick of things. But no one wanted to commission pictures of their grandma when there was a bloody war going on and men were dying every day, slaughtered as a result of America deciding to throw her support to the underdogs of a civil war that had nothing to do with her whatsoever. It was that thought that made Dean yearn for the simpleness of his own native New Zealand, and he felt a brief moment of homesickness and sadness wash over him like a tidal wave before he shrugged it off.

He was jerked out of his brief reverie as Private Evans stood and jumped out of the bed of the truck, resting his hand on the edge and throwing his legs over the side. Standing cautiously, Dean stood and carefully eased himself out, reaching back in to grab his equipment bags. Once again, it was left to Evans to play packhorse and carry the rest of Dean’s bags. Slinging one over his shoulder and clutching the other one to his chest, Dean glanced around curiously as he entered the small soldier base. It looked remarkably like a campsite or caravan park, with its weatherboard buildings and bunkhouses that were set in a large clearing on the outskirts of the jungle. He could see a few soldiers milling about the place, segregated by their khaki uniforms. Some of them paused in their activities to direct looks filled with sympathy, interest and jealousy at the photographer. Dean could understand their envy. After two weeks ( _if he survived_ , the little voice in his head chimed in, which he steadfastly ignored) he got to go home, leave the horrors and the fear behind. The reality of this place and the war would become nothing more than memories and monsters that haunted him on dark nights.

Squinting against the bright sun and feeling his shirt sticking to his back when he moved, Dean discovered that while he’d been taking in his new surroundings, Private Evans had moved off towards the building that most likely housed the office of the commanding officer. Dean’s suspicions were confirmed when Evans knocked on the door, waiting until he received the command to enter from inside before he pushed open the door, holding it open for Dean to enter behind him.

“Colonel Stott, sir,” Private Evans said, saluting briefly as the door snapped quietly shut behind Dean, giving him a gentle reprieve from the harsh sun. Dean blinked, adjusting his eyesight in the darker room. He nervously eyed the older soldier in uniform behind the large wooden desk that was covered in papers and reports and occupied most of the room. A tall, bulky, hardened soldier stood in front of the desk, made all the more intimidating by his shiny bald head, and he turned when he heard Dean and Evans enter. There was an air about him that suggested he was someone not to be messed with, and his aura oozed with command and control.

Colonel Stott nodded at Evans before rising and moving out from his desk. He strode toward Dean and held out his hand. “Mr O’Gorman?” Dean nodded, his hand being gripped in a firm handshake. Stott grinned. “Welcome. I’m Colonel Stott; I’m in charge here.” He motioned behind him to the other soldier who stood silently. “This is Sergeant McTavish. It’s his squad that you’ll be stationed with during your brief stay with us.” Dean shook the sergeant’s hand, nodding and muttering a short, “Hello.”

Colonel Stott continued. “Though this camp may seem large, we have a number of squads, units, platoons and battalions currently residing here, so you’ll be sharing the bunkhouse that has been assigned to your squad. I believe there’s a spare bed or two there that you can use.” Dean voiced his thanks and Stott smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t get too comfortable just yet, young man. You’ll be sent out in a few days to relieve another squad. You’ll get a first-hand glance at battle, most likely, and it will be dangerous.” He looked Dean over with a sharp and trained eye as if to say, ‘I hope you know what you’re in for.’ Dean only swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and gave yet another nod, although this was somewhat more jerkier than all the others. Stott clapped him on the shoulder.

“See to it our new recruit gets settled in, Private Evans,” McTavish ordered gruffly, and Evans responded with a “Yessir.” With no further words or instructions, the two younger men were dismissed, and Evans led Dean back out into the sunshine and humidity.

“C’mon,” Evans motioned, and once more, Dean was left to stare at the back of his dark head as he followed the soldier to another building, somewhat larger than Colonel Stott’s office but still quite small. A few soldiers called out to Evans as they passed, and Dean was surprised to see Evans crack a smile as he replied jovially. Shortly, they reached the door to the rectangular building, climbing a couple of stairs to get to it. “This is where the rest of my squad stays,” Evans explained, “and it’s where you’ll be staying too, until we move out.” He flicked the light switch, and a couple of dim light bulbs lit up the dingy-looking place. Five bunk beds lined each wall, separated with small chests of drawers that the residing soldiers could use to store their small amount of belongings, clothes and personal items. There were cracks in the white plastered walls, as well as numerous messages and words scrawled at random intervals.

Private Evans pointed to a bed halfway along the line on the right side. “That’s me,” he said. “Bottom bunk.” He craned his head, frowning. “I don’t think any of the men…” he trailed off, then let out a quiet whistle, his eyes falling on the only free bed – a top bunk on the end of the row on the left side. “Man, I pity you.” He shook his head. “Wouldn’t like to be stuck in your position.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked nervously, frowning. 

Evans twisted his mouth in a grimace that could have been sympathetic or just plain dislike. “The guy you’re bunking with? Turner? Let’s just say he’s a piece of work and leave it at that, shall we?” Signalling that the conversation was over, he carried on down the small aisle between the bunks, dropping Dean’s bags by the wall. Dean walked slowly, wrinkling his nose at the odour of stale sweat that accosted his nostrils.

“You get used to the smell after a while,” Evans said, noting Dean’s facial expression. He lounged against the opposite bunk, fumbling in one of his pockets before he pulled out a rolled cigarette, lighting it and taking a deep drag.

Dean coughed, fanning the fumes away from his face with his hand. “That’s not just a ciggie, is it?”

“Believe me, when you’ve been here long enough you start looking for any way to escape.” Evans smiled morbidly, taking another hit of the marijuana.

Pulling a face and turning away, Dean climbed the bottom two rungs of the bunk’s ladder, carefully depositing his equipment bags on the thin mattress. Lowering himself down again, he was about to face Private Evans when his eye caught a large section of text on the wall. He leaned towards it, raising a hand to trace the thick, black letters that had been written in marker.

 _War is just a sickness, an infection – spreading rapidly, killing everybody… nobody left to pick up the pieces, to rebuild anew (how long would it last? inevitably there’d be another scarring battle)… Madness is coming, Death is knocking, and yet we still insist on trying to pathetically resist it. With our guns raised high, and the promise of a glorious death, we go down in a blaze of bullets and a haze of bloody red._ _The clock ticks on towards our impending doom, the rising of the orange sun heralds the start of a new day that will be the last for many. The setting sun only works to further cement the fragility and unreliable way of the world; nothing lasts forever._

_‘Immortal’ is a childish word invented by people who tried their hand at playing God. The concept is foreign, the word as silken as honey and as deceptive as the fickleness of human nature._

_Save your laments and ballads for later, Shakespeare; the world is calling out for a saviour._

_But does it hold its breath in vain?_

“Turner fancies himself a bit of a wordsmith,” Evans said, noticing what Dean was staring at and pulling him back to the present.

“Hmm?”

“Turner,” Evans pointed with his rolled cigarette at the words. “Your estranged bunk mate. He wrote that.”

“Oh.” Dean turned back to the black lines. “It’s very… deep.” _Incredible_ , he was going to say, but he didn’t think that Evans would appreciate any compliment towards this ‘Turner’ for some reason.

His reply was a bitter snort. “He’s a fuckin’ psycho. A martyr. He only signed up for the war because he wanted to die. He’s constantly putting himself in danger and taking unnecessary risks out in the field – ultimately risking us all – just because he didn’t have the fucking guts to take his own life.” Evans spat on the wooden floorboards by his boots and Dean flinched when he shuffled back to face the soldier. Anger stained the Private’s face, making his normally pleasant features become ugly as he glared at the neatly made bed of Turner. Another piece of text caught Dean’s eyes, and he twisted his head further to read more of the black scrawl  - this time by the pillow of the bed - underlined furiously and circled heavily: _WHY AM I STILL HERE?!?!?!?_

Dean swallowed hard, the weight of this new knowledge settling in his stomach like a stone. It wasn’t exactly something that was reassuring to hear, and he prayed to some unknown higher deity that Evans was just making it up; he didn’t want to die out here on assignment as the result of some soldier’s stupidity and recklessness. Perhaps this Turner was just a reserved, quiet guy who secretly liked knitted cardigans and kittens, and Evans was trying to scare him off. Somehow though, Dean didn’t think that Private Evans would make shit like that up, and what Turner had supposedly written on the wall only served to further cement Evans’ words.

Maybe Turner really was a psychotic, suicidal and deranged man who desperately wanted to die.

He must have looked uncomfortable because Private Evans went on to say, “Look, stick with me and a coupla others, and you’ll be fine. We’ll make sure Turner doesn’t bother you.”

 Nodding vaguely, Dean turning back to the writing on the wall, his eyes unable to leave the hastily formed words that to him seemed like a silent scream for help.

*****

When Dean entered the Mess Hall a short time later (still following Private Evans), he was met with a wall of noise. The hum of the soldiers’ chatter, the ringing of loud laughs and the clinks and scraping sounds the cutlery produced all painted a picture of a relaxed, casual group of men who were simply sharing a meal. It was like the Mess Hall was their haven; in here they could forget about the war, about everything, and just have a laugh and a meal with their mates.

Still in his ‘civilian clothes’ as Evans had called them, Dean attracted quite a lot of not-so-subtle glances and whispers. Colonel Stott had also told the photojournalist that he’d be receiving something akin to the camouflage-khaki uniform of the soldiers whilst he was out in the jungle, which would serve to protect him from standing out too much. Unfortunately, Dean reflected, that would make him look like a soldier, and if one of the enemy made the same assumption and decided to take pot-shots at him… Well, he tried not to think about that too much.

Carrying his tray of food, Dean was directed to a table over in the corner that was already inhabited by seven other men by Evans, who pushed his way through the crowd of jaunty soldiers. Being of a shorter height, Dean got more than slightly jostled and his cheeks were on fire while he muttered apologies under his breath and received more than a few curious looks. Finally he escaped from the throng and after sweeping the room with his eyes to make sure that he was walking to the right table, sat hesitantly down opposite Evans and next to a thin, weedy-looking soldier with a narrow face. The second his tray touched the table, all the men occupying the other seats around the table stopped their conversations and turned towards him.

“Oh, fellas, this is O’Gorman. Y’know, that photographer we were getting,” Evans introduced. “O’Gorman, this is the rest of the squad.” They nodded briefly at him before returning to their previous conversations. Dean studied their faces, eyes flicking from one soldier to another as he wondered which one was Turner. They all seemed to get along just fine, however, which left Dean feeling more than a little confused.

Evans was sucked into what sounded like a loud conversation about preferred film actresses, although Dean couldn’t be sure because their words were sucked into the rest of the large room’s noise. Keeping his head down low, Dean picked at his food, taking small mouthfuls and feeling like an outsider. Which, he supposed, he was.

“Hey there,” the soldier with the narrow face said, swivelling to face him. A smile lit up his features, and Dean noticed that his ears stuck out quite a bit. “I’m Adam. Well,” he amended, holding out his hand, “technically it’s Private Brown, but Adam’s just fine.”

“Dean,” Dean replied, taking the offered hand and giving it a short shake. He appraised Adam with a critical eye. No, he decided, if Turner was a psycho, then Adam was obviously the guy who liked knitted cardigans and kittens.

“You don’t look like a soldier,” he blurted, then blushed, ducking his head. “I’m sorry that was rude. I just meant- ”

A small, sad smile crossed Adam’s face. “It’s okay,” he said, waving it off. “I get that a lot. I completely disagree with the war – with _any_ sort of physical confrontation – and only joined because my parents wanted me to. They thought it’d be good for me, would turn me into the son they _want_ , not the one they’ve got.” He made a vague sweeping gesture at his thin frame, a tiny note of bitterness evident in his voice, and his kind brown eyes clouded over. “It’s okay,” he repeated. “I’m used to being a disappointment.”

“No, I just- ” Dean hastily tried to fix things. “I just meant that you look too _nice_ to be a soldier. A lot of the men,” he lowered his voice so no one would hear and take offense. “A lot of the men I’ve seen seem to be tough, solemn, hardened guys who don’t give a shit about anything. Y’know?” he finished weakly.

Adam gave a small giggle before sobering up. “That’s what war does to you,” he said seriously. Then he smiled again, his eyes back to their earlier sparkle. “But thank you for trying to make me feel better.”

Thinking it would be best if he changed the topic, Dean hurried to ask, “So… is this everyone then?” gesturing around the table with his fork in a circular motion. Adam nodded.

“Except for Aidan. But he hardly ever eats with us. Hardly ever _eats_ ,” he added, under his breath. Dean frowned slightly. “And Sergeant Arm- McTavish.” He looked up at Dean, a shadow of loss and pain stretched across his face. “And now you.” Adam stared at him for a few seconds. Then it was his turn to abruptly change the subject. “So, Luke showed you around, did he?”

“Luke?”

“Private Evans,” Adam elaborated. Dean’s eyes widened in understanding.

“Oh. Um, not really. He just- Well, I saw Colonel Stott’s office when I first got here and was introduced to Sergeant McTavish,” aware of the young man’s earlier slip, Dean looked at him to gauge his reaction when he spoke the soldier’s name, but Adam only nodded slightly, urging him to go on, “and he showed me the building where you guys sleep and we dumped my equipment and bags.” Dean shrugged.  “And then we came here.”

“I can show you around,” Adam offered. “After you finish eating, if you want. I’ll be scouring the camp for Aidan anyway, making sure he hasn’t got himself into any trouble.”

“Sure,” Dean said, taking him up on his offer. The beaming smile he received in return could have powered a small city.

“Great!”

Dean opened his mouth to say something else, but was cut off by a yell from up the other end of the table.

“Hey, O’Gorman!”

“What?” He leaned forward, trying to see which man had spoken.

“Your accent. Where you from? You sure as hell ain’t American.” Despite the blunt words, the tone they were delivered in wasn’t harsh, and Dean figured it was just the way the soldiers spoke to each other.

“New Zealand, originally,” he answered, pausing to run a hand through his blonde hair. “But I moved to L.A. a couple of years ago.” He didn’t mention the fact that the homesickness that had plagued him for the first few months had never gone away, only intensifying with every day he spent in the dreary grey, smog-filled city. He didn’t mention the fact that he was severely debating the thought of moving back home. But that would mean admitting defeat, and he wasn’t ready to do that just yet. Besides, he didn’t have the money, either.

“Wow,” Adam breathed from beside him. “That’s so cool. I’ve always wanted to travel, but this is the first time I’ve left America. Heck, first time I’ve left Illinois. New Zealand’s supposed to be really pretty, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Dean confirmed, another pang of homesickness stabbing him bluntly in the gut as the other men, satisfied with the answer they received, returned to their own conversation.

“Aidan’s not American either,” Adam continued, a never-ceasing fount of knowledge. “He’s Irish. But he never publicises his life in Ireland or why he moved.” At this new piece of information, Dean had a sudden vision of ‘Aidan’ as a short, red-haired bloke with a nasty temper.

In other words, a Leprechaun.

“Hey, you done?” Adam asked, glancing down at Dean’s empty tray. “I’ll take that for you. Meet me outside and I’ll give you that tour I promised.”

“Oh, uh,” Dean stammered as the young soldier stood up and took both their trays. “Thanks.”

Adam smiled at him again. “Don’t worry about it.” He left, presumably going to dump the trays, and Dean cautiously stood up.

“Hey, O’Gorman.”

He looked up, meeting Evans’ ( _Luke_ , he remembered Adam calling him) eyes as he reclined in his chair. “Remember what I said about sticking with me if you don’t want trouble.”

Dean frowned. “I don’t under- ”

“Look,” the soldier next to Evans said. He had a moustache framing his upper lip. “We like Adam. He’s a nice guy. Doesn’t deserve to be caught up in this shitty war. But he doesn’t keep the best company. Just be mindful of that.”

About to reply, Dean saw Adam trekking across the Mess Hall to the door, stopping to swap a few friendly words with a couple of other soldiers. “Look, I um, I gotta go…” he mumbled. He heard Evans say something as he hurried off and the other remaining soldiers laughed loudly. And suddenly there was a heavy, nervous feeling in his stomach and he wished -  not for the first time – that he hadn’t accepted this assignment.

*****

Adam was waiting for him outside. He grinned when he saw Dean. “There you are. C’mon, let’s go.”

He led Dean around the camp, pointing out various buildings and introducing him to the few friendly soldiers that passed. Adam was friendly, the nicest and most genuine guy that Dean had met on this trip so far, but he couldn’t get the soldier’s words out of his head. _He doesn’t keep the best company._ About halfway through the tour, Adam stopped suddenly, turning to the older man beside him.

“Look,” he said, hesitating slightly, worry etched onto his youthful face. “I don’t know what Luke and his friends said to you, but it’s not true, alright? They just… they’re not willing to take the time to understand or get to know someone who’s _different_ , who doesn’t fit in. Whatever they said… please just ignore it? Until you get to formulate your own opinion without any input from others.”

“I- ” Dean began.

“I know they said something to you,” Adam cut him off. “I saw them stop you on the way out. You seem like a good guy, Dean, and I just don’t want your judgement clouded by things other people say.”

“Uh… okay,” Dean said slowly, not entirely understanding what the conversation was about or where it was headed.

Adam’s reply was to tentatively smile. “Thank you,” he said. “That means a lot to me.” He wavered for a minute before adding nervously, “I just… I have a feeling that you’re not like the others, and.” He shrugged, sighing. Finally he said, “Let’s continue, shall we?” Dean nodded, and Adam reverted back to his friendly, helpful self.

They had nearly finished the tour of the camp when they heard raised voices from behind one of the larger barracks. A shadow flitted across Adam’s face. “Oh, no,” he breathed. He grabbed Dean’s arm after a fleeting look at the man’s slightly-muscled arms. “Come on,” he said urgently. “I might need your help.”

Dean followed the young soldier who’d begun to run, and sliding around the corner he stopped dead, swallowing hard and taking in the scene in front of him.

A blonde soldier of medium-build was crowding another soldier into the wall of the building, this one being of tall height and dark hair. Both young men were clearly muscled from the training they’d undergone, and their arms flexed threateningly and while their upper bodies tensed, ready for a fight. They both glared at each other, surrounded on one side by a group of soldiers who were obviously eager for a fight between the two to break out.

“Aidan!” Adam yelled out, moving swiftly toward the two men. The dark-haired man gritted his teeth, his eyes never leaving the blonde soldier’s face.

“Stay _out_ of this, Adam,” he growled darkly, an Irish accent blanketing his words. Dean immeadiately did a double take. _Whoa._ If that was Adam’s Aidan, then… He was startlingly good-looking. Not a short, red-haired, Leprechaun at all. He felt his eyes trace Aidan’s face of their own accord, taking in the stubble that littered his cheeks and his cropped dark hair. Dean’s fingers itched, and he desperately wished he could photograph this man standing before him.

Puffs of dust swirled gently around each man’s military boots, coating them in grains of brown as the blonde man moved closer to Aidan, leering in his face and trying to initiate a reaction out of the Irishman. From the looks of things, he was close to getting one, too.

“Lookie-here, boys,” the stocky blonde drawled, a thick Texan accent spewing from his mouth like slime. “Mommy’s here to save the day.” He glanced quickly at Adam as the men behind him guffawed, obviously not eager to take his eyes off the simmering Irish soldier.

Aidan took a step forward, using his height advantage to push the Texan back slightly. “You leave him _alone_. He has nothing to do with you. This is just about you, and me.” His voice was low, steeped in threat insinuations and unsaid promises. They were nearly chest to chest now, and Dean knew that soon, one of them would start the physical aspect of the fight and all hell would break loose. Obviously, Adam knew that too, because he started to move forward as the blonde soldier countered with, “Or what? Hmm? What’re you gonna do to me if I touch him? Are you gonna kill me? You gonna kill me like you killed your family?”

Adam gasped, horrified, and Aidan’s face turned a dead white, making his hair seem even darker. “You fucking _bastard_ ,” were the only words that came out of his mouth, strangled and terrified, as he lunged for the Texan, his hands grabbing for his throat.  Adam leapt to action, getting in between the two men and wrapping his arms around Aidan’s abdomen, trying to stop the fuming Irishman by pushing him backwards and out of the fight. Adam, however, was little more than a distraction, his small frame and light weight barely making a difference.

“Dean!” he called out, a plea of help. Dean was standing there on the periphery of things, a thousand thoughts running through his head at once and trying to comprehend just what the fuck was going on. He started forward, just as the Texan soldier swung a punch at Aidan, who ducked, even with Adam desperately hanging on to him. The punch caught the thin soldier in the side of his face, and with a yelp he went down, letting go of Aidan and falling in a heap at the now-brawling soldiers’ feet.

Seeing his new friend take a hit like that spurred Dean on and he raced forward, wrapping his arms around the muscular Irishman from behind as he tried to pummel the shit out of the blonde soldier, who lay in the dust spluttering and coughing. He got an elbow in the stomach as a result of his trouble, letting out an “Oof!” as he tightened his hold and yanked upwards, locking his hands together around the other man’s slim waist. It wasn’t easy. Dean was barely able to match Aidan’s strength, and the Irishman didn’t come quietly, wriggling and jerking in Dean’s grip as he tried to return to the fight. Aidan had the advantage of adrenalin and anger on his side, something that Dean was aware of, and he could have easily over-powered Dean, but suddenly Adam was there, grabbing Aidan’s flailing wrists and opting for a soothing tone, saying, “Aidan, _Aidan_ , leave him… He’s not worth it… Aidan, _please_.” His brown eyes were wide and there was blood trickling down from both nostrils, but Adam either wasn’t aware of it nor cared.

The tall Irishman turned his furious snarl to Adam, but where others would have quailed and cowered, Adam stood strong, repeating “ _Aidan_ ,” in the sort of tone a mother would use when reprimanding a particularly naughty child as he looked his friend in the eye.

Aidan stopped struggling in Dean’s arms, but heaved himself out of the photographer’s grip. His chest was heaving from the thrill of a fight, and his glare hadn’t withered. He now turned it on the Texan, who was being picked up by his friends. With a scathing look back at the Irishman, he and his friends fled the scene, muttering things about “Fucking psychos.”

Soon it was just the three of them.

“I don’t need you to get involved and try and protect me, Adam,” the Irishman exploded, facing his friend who had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and was trying to stem the blood from his nose. “I can take care of myself. I’m not some pathetic child.”

“Clearly,” Adam shot back thickly, relenting and sending his friend a dark look.

Aidan let loose a short growl of frustration. His khaki shirt was ripped from the fight, and Dean concentrated on looking anywhere but the dark hair that dusted his chest. His stomach was throbbing slightly from where he’d been jabbed with an elbow, and his lunch now sat uncomfortably in his belly.

Rubbing his hand over his face, Aidan sighed, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its edge, quietening down into something more meek and pleasant. “C’mere,” he said softly to Adam. The fight had gone out of his body, and though Dean could tell he was still angry, he saw the way that the Irishman’s shoulders slumped tiredly.

Adam complied, letting his friend pull the handkerchief away from his nose and gently prod his cheek. Adam hissed when Aidan’s fingers grazed the spot where he’d taken the punch, and Aidan winced, his features softening in sympathy. “Sorry,” he said. “You should go to the infirmary; get something to null the pain and see what the nurses think about your nose.” His Irish accent turned his pronunciation of the ‘th’ sound into just a single ‘t’ – “someting”, “tink” – and Dean couldn’t help but to find it more than just slightly attractive.

“So should you.” Adam motioned to a cut on Aidan’s face that sat above his cheekbone. “That could get infected out here, and then they’ll have to amputate your pretty face.” Aidan snorted and rolled his eyes.

“I’ll be fine,” the man in question said, waving it off. “You go and get checked out. See? It’s already startin’ to bruise.” He clapped Adam on the shoulder and started walking away.

“Wait, Aidan, where are you going?” he protested. 

“Around,” was the reply. “Don’t worry, I’ll see you later.”

“ _Don’t_ get into any more fights!” Adam yelled at the retreating back of his friend. Aidan raised a hand briefly in recognition of his words, but didn’t turn around, leaving Adam to heave an exasperated sigh. He looked at Dean. “Thanks for helping out back there,” he said softly.

Dean shrugged. “No problem.” He stared at the Irishman in the distance, wondering why he felt so disappointed and discouraged that Aidan hadn’t even spared a glance at him. “So that’s your mate Aidan, huh?”

Adam nodded. “Yeah. He’s a good guy. He’s just… misunderstood and extremely difficult at times.” He bit his lip, then quickly turned back to Dean as if he was just remembering something. “He didn’t really kill his family, you know? He wouldn’t. He told me. The others, they just…” He broke off, shaking his head. “It’s not my story to tell, and I respect his right to privacy.”

“I get it.” Dean offered the young soldier a weak smile. “Not my business.” He scuffed the toe of his shoes into the dirt as silence descended over the two of them. He glanced up at Adam, seeing the left side of his face already swelling and starting to fade to a purply-blue colour. “C’mon,” he said. “What was that about a visit to the infirmary?”

*****

Later that night, Dean sat beside Adam on his bunk in the bunkhouse that had been allocated to the squad he’d been placed in. The bruising and swelling on his face wasn’t as bad as it could have been, thanks to the care from the camp’s nurses, but Adam was now sporting a black eye, and winced frequently when he laughed or smiled. He had been overjoyed to learn that they were ‘neighbours’ sleeping-wise (“You’re up there? Cool! I’m the bunk opposite, ’cept I’m on the lower bunk.”), and had helped Dean find a spare uniform to wear for the duration of his stay in the jungle. Currently, Dean had one of his cameras out and was explaining some of the finer points of it.

After hearing Dean admit that he was better and at taking portrait shots of people, Adam had had the idea that Dean should take a portrait of each of the soldiers in the squad, to which the other men (who had filed in slowly at various intervals of the night) had agreed.

Once again, Dean was left feeling out of place as the night progressed and all of the soldiers save Aidan and Turner were in the bunkhouse, all in various states of undress as they prepared for bed, making it obvious that they were pretty comfortable around each other (or just didn’t care) and with their bodies. Some sat on the bunks shirtless and smoking, while a couple were already underneath their sheets, clad in only their underwear. It made Dean feel self-conscious, especially because he knew that he’d probably have to do the same, and while he didn’t have the ugliest body out there, he wasn’t exactly the type to flaunt it, either.

He was the only one still fully-clothed in what he had worn during the day. Even Adam had swapped his khakis for a t-shirt and a light pair of cotton pants. One of the soldiers in their underwear (Dean didn’t know his name) gave a cheeky grin upon seeing Dean with his camera and called down the aisle, “O’Gorman! Take a shot o’ this!” before pulling down his underwear and mooning Dean. He flushed bright red, but could appreciate the funny side of things, laughing with the men, who found it incredibly hilarious, making all sorts of sexual connotations and innuendoes. Adam had joined in too, though his laughter wasn’t as loud the others and he soon stopped, raising a hand to poke gently at his face.

Standing up, he moved over to Turner’s bed, where he’d left the bag for the camera, and proceeded to pack it away carefully. He was so engrossed in his task that he didn’t notice the soldiers’ laughter in the room die down, suddenly cut short, nor the way the atmosphere tensed, nor the soft tread of boots on the wooden floor.

“That’s my bed your shit’s on,” came a threatening voice wrapped in an Irish accent that Dean recognised. He spun around gasping, coming face-to-face with an unimpressed Aidan, who scowled at him before adding, “What the fuck are _you_ doing here?”

“I, I, s-sorry,” Dean stammered, his eyes wide with the realisation that Turner was _Aidan_. Aidan had drawn himself up to his full height, which was considerably taller than Dean, and he wore the same dangerous glare that he had when he faced off with that blonde Texan earlier that afternoon.

He was really fucking intimidating.

“Aidan,” Adam said quietly, a warning evident in his tone, but his voice was swallowed by Evans’, who stood up from where he’d been smoking on his lower bunk and moved down the aisle.

“Leave him alone, Turner.” His voice was hard. “He’s the photographer that’s been placed with us. Dealing with the confronting nature of war will be bad enough for him, and he doesn’t need shit from you to make it worse.”

Aidan – no, _Turner_ ; for in this state he was exactly like Evans had described, a sort of intimidating psycho – scoffed, his eyes flashing dangerously as he turned to face a shirtless Evans. “‘My shit’? And what’s that supposed to mean?” He and Evans were eye-to-eye. “You wanna stop being such an arsehole and clarify that for me?”

“You know fucking well what I’m talking about,” Evans retorted. “You only obey McTavish’s orders to the barest minimum unless suits you – you make us fuckin’ vulnerable when you do that in the field, _asshole_ ,” Evans mocked. In the background, Dean held his forgotten camera bag in his hands, frozen, watching the scene unfold in front of him. Some of the men behind Evans began to stir, too, casually letting Turner know that if they were needed, they’d jump to Evans’ defense without a moment’s hesitation.

“And let’s not forget,” Evans continued, “the fact that you were stupid enough to get yourself surrounded by the fucking _Viet Cong_ when you went off on one of your sulks, and Sergeant Armitage was killed when he went after you. You practically murdered him.” A sneer marred Evans’ face, and Turner stood stock-still, his fists clenching and his glare intensifying, about to snap at any moment. Risking a quick glance at Adam, Dean saw that the man had frozen, his face pale, his body trembling but unable to move.

“I wanted to leave you there, told Armitage that it was too dangerous to go after you.” Evans’ voice was thick and heavy with bitterness. “But no. You were always his favourite. You were always his golden boy. He loved you like a father. And because killing your family wasn’t enough, you had to go and- ”

Turner swung, but Evans was too quick and he missed. In his anger Turner overbalanced, and Dean threw himself out of the way when Evans took advantage of his slip-up, lunging towards the Irishman and slamming his back into the wall. Turner’s hands went to Evans’ throat, while Evans seized the fabric of Turner’s shirt – still ripped from the fight with the Texan – drawing him forward and shoving him back against the wall again. Turner snarled as his head flew back and hit the wall, spitting blood over Evans’ chest from where he’d bitten his tongue.

With a feral glint in his eye, Turner pushed the other man away from him, and Evans stumbled back, catching his footing just in time. The two men made to go at each other again, but a loud rumbling voice cut them off.

“That’s enough, you two, that’s enough! Hey!” McTavish shouted, striding into the bunkhouse and pulling Turner and Evans apart. “I said, _that’s enough_ ,” he growled. He glared between the two soldiers, Evans wilting slightly under the gaze of his commanding officer, but Turner didn’t back down. He violently shrugged his shoulder free of McTavish’s grip, and the only sound in the silent bunk house was the ragged breathing of the two soldiers.

“I expected better from you, Private Evans,” McTavish grumbled out, and Evans look slightly ashamed. “And _you_ , Private Turner, have just disobeyed a direct order from your commanding officer.” Turner’s expression didn’t flicker or waver at all, though something heavy settled in the room. McTavish was silent, letting his words sink in. “To bed, all of you,” he said to the room, but to Turner he issued a threatening, “Come with me.” His bulky mass and looming figure added to his anger meant that there was no room for disobeying his orders. With one last withering glare around the room (during which Dean found himself staring at the floor so he wouldn’t meet the Sergeant’s disapproving eyes), he left, taking Turner with him.

The door slammed closed behind the two soldiers, and the room stayed silent. Evans stood still for a minute, before moving to his bunk, whereupon he slid under the covers and turned to face the wall, keeping his back to everyone. Dean gently set his camera bag down, moving over to sit quietly beside Adam, who could barely move out of fear. A few of the other men sent them curious glances, but said nothing of it. No one joked anymore, and no one dared to speak.

“What was that all about?” Dean whispered, still shocked about what had just happened.

Adam looked at him, his eyes wide with terror. “Sergeant Armitage, he… he was our previous commander. Before McTavish. A brilliant man. I-It’s true, he did get killed while trying to save Aidan, and everything Luke threw in his face about being Sergeant Armitage’s favourite was true.  Aidan never forgave himself for his death. It was only a month or two ago that it happened, and Aidan…” he broke off, shaking his head. “It destroyed something inside of him. He just… snapped. It’s part of the reason he’s so angry and hurting all the time. He despises himself. He was never allocated enough time to grieve properly. Literally the day after Sergeant Armitage was killed they shipped McTavish out to take over, and he runs things a whole lot differently. Aidan just… he can’t take it. He tells me all the time that there’s nothing left for him anymore, and that if we ever stumble across any Viet Cong while out in the field from now on, he’ll just… walk out, no weapons, no nothing. Just let them shoot him.” A dry sob escaped from Adam’s mouth, and his hands flew to cover his lips, stopping any other sound from slipping out. “Aidan’s the only friend I’ve ever had, and I don’t want to lose him,” he said quietly.

Dean was silent. He didn’t know what to say or how to reply to Adam’s words. He didn’t even know if Adam had meant to divulge that much information about his friend to him.

“What about the ‘disobeying an order’ thing?” Dean asked, remember Sergeant McTavish’s words. “What did he mean by that?”

Adam was quiet for a while. “Colonel Stott and Sergeant McTavish both ordered Aidan not to get caught in any fights or initiate them within the squad. The people in your squad are supposed to be something akin to brothers, people you can trust and depend on, and he was a loose cannon in their mind. They thought if they could stop him from becoming violent and argumentative towards other members of the squad, then… they’d be able to ‘fix’ him. I don’t know, I don’t quite understand the mentality behind it. But it’s dangerous to be fighting with your friends, especially out in the field.”

Dean exhaled heavily. “From the looks of things, I wouldn’t exactly call those two ‘friends’,” Dean said, referring to Turner and Evans.

Adam gave a small smile. “They used to be,” he said. “Best buddies, even. Before I came along. But they had a falling out about something. Aidan didn’t go into any detail.” He sighed, biting his lip. “I hope nothing bad happens to him,” he half-whispered. He looked at Dean. “Your superiors generally decide the punishment for disobeying an order. Sometimes…” Adam picked at a fraying thread on his blanket. “Sometimes, it’s death.”

An icy shiver ran through Dean.

“They wouldn’t,” he said, trying to reassure himself as well as Adam. “Surely not. That’d only be for extreme cases, right?”

Adam shrugged and Dean suppressed another shudder.

“Look,” Adam said. “I’m tired, I’m going to go bed.”

“Oh, right,” Dean said, taking the hint and standing up. He moved to stand by the rungs of the ladder to his bunk, meaning to undress and make the climb up into his bed, but he was transfixed by Aidan’s handwriting, the desperate _WHY AM I STILL HERE?!?!?_ etched into his mind permanently.

“Lights out,” came the call from further up the aisle.

And then Dean was left standing in the dark, Aidan’s words an imprint behind his eyelids.


	3. 2 - A Long Way Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited and glad that you all seem to have recieved this story so positively. It makes my job so much easier and enjoyable.

Aidan still hadn’t returned by morning.

Dean could see the worry on Adam’s face, pale but for the dark bruising that wrapped around his eye and cheekbone, and the way he constantly wrung his hands and bit his lip until it was raw and bleeding. He was worried himself – a nervous churning in his stomach – despite the numerous times he told himself he shouldn’t be, but he couldn’t help it. He was just irrevocably drawn the enigmatic Irishman for some inexplicable reason.

Adam disappeared after breakfast in the Mess Hall for a short period of time, telling Dean that he’d meet him back in their bunkhouse and hurrying after Sergeant McTavish, who he’d just spotted. The other men in the squad brought up Adam’s idea from the previous night about photographing portraits of them, and suggested that Dean do it that day due to the fact they would spend the next preparing to leave and being briefed about what they were required to do out in the field. While Dean went to grab his equipment and cameras, a couple of the men went to scout out a deserted building that Dean could set up in. Others, like a slightly subdued Evans, lounged against the bunks, watching as the photojournalist briefly checked he had everything, and grabbed a pen and notebook to record the names of the men, seeing as he didn’t know any of their names (with the exception of Adam, Evans, McTavish and Turner).

Slinging one bag over his shoulder and carrying the other one, Dean followed the rest of the soldiers out of the bunkhouse and into the sunlight and humidity, heading across camp to the Recreational Hall that sat adjacent to the Mess Hall. There the soldiers could relax and unwind, spend time with their mates, write letters to loved ones’, play card games, whatever took their fancy. He still attracted some stares from other soldiers that didn’t belong to McTavish’s squad, mainly because he was still wearing civilian clothes; he hadn’t felt comfortable pulling on the military uniform that had been loaned to him. Adam jogged up to join their group when they’d nearly reached the hall, using his thin frame to his advantage and slipping through the other soldiers until he reached Dean’s side. He flashed the New Zealander a smile of relief, as wide as he could manage without grimacing too much.

“He’s okay!” he said in a hushed voice, glancing cautiously at the surrounding soldiers. “Aidan! He’s alright. I spoke to Sergeant McTavish; they’ve put him in solitary confinement until we leave, and he’s also on kitchen and lavatory duty, but he’s okay!”

The young soldier’s enthusiasm and happiness was infectious, and Dean found himself smiling gently in return. “See?” he said, bumping their shoulders casually together. “I told you they wouldn’t kill him.” Adam blushed, ducking his head and not meeting Dean’s eyes.

One of the other soldiers held the door of the Recreational Hall open for Dean and Dean muttered a “Thanks,” in his direction, receiving a curt nod in reply. The soldiers watched curiously as he began to set up in the room, casually lolling against the white-wall, a few with cigarettes in their mouths. Adam hung at his side like a puppy, eager to offer his assistance if required. When everything was to his liking, Dean turned to face the squad of men, biting his lip thoughtfully as he swept his eyes over them.

“How d’you want us?” the cocky soldier who had mooned him the night before asked, placing a hand behind his head and pushing his chest out as he struck a pose. A few others chuckled.

Dean hesitated. “It… It would sort of be better if you look like you’d just come in from the field. Y’know, a bit of dirt on your faces, some equipment slung over your shoulders… bullets draped around your neck… Maybe a few with packs and helmets… That sort of thing.”

The soldiers mulled his words over silently before looking at each other and nodding.

“Give us a minute, wouldja?” one said, and they all filed out again, Adam included, presumably to go and find the things that Dean had just suggested. While he waited for them to return, Dean double checked his set up, making sure that the room’s lighting wouldn’t interfere with the photographs. The men came back shortly in various states of disarray – all of them had mud and dirt rubbed into their faces and clothes, their belts tied around their waists with various items of equipment such as water bottles and small satchel-type bags. All of them carried their helmets, and a few had even tucked strands of ferns and other greenery into the band that wrapped around the camouflage material, while one man had slipped in a photograph of a woman - most likely his wife or girlfriend who he’d left at home. Some, like Adam, had returned with packs on their backs, and Dean couldn’t help but to give a little smile when he noticed that Adam had managed to find a long piece of leather cord with the ‘peace’ symbol hanging off it, and he proudly wore it around his neck, the symbol splashed across his chest as a declaration of his beliefs. Most of the men had brought their guns with them, and Dean eyed the weapons nervously.

Seeing the look on his face, the moustached soldier who’d warned him about becoming friends with Adam hastened to put Dean’s mind at rest. “Don’t worry, they’re not loaded,” he reassured, and all the men held their guns out in front of them, proceeding to show Dean that yes, they weren’t loaded and likely to go off at any time, accidentally killing or maiming anybody present.

Satisfied, Dean nodded, his eyes roaming over the men present and the cogs of his mind turning as he visualised some of the positions and poses he could possibly put them in that would somehow manage to convey their pride at representing their country, their youth and the resigned reality that they would no longer be able to live a normal life any more, haunted by memories and visions of the terrible events that had and would befall them in the humid and unforgiving jungles of Vietnam.

“Well?” Dean shifted his gaze to Evans, who was smoking, his body and posture languid and slumped as he reclined against the wall. “Who’s first?”

Shrugging, the native New Zealander answered, “Whoever jumps in front of the camera first.”

“Ooh, me! Please?” Adam begged, flashing Dean a hopeful smile. Dean nodded, moving over to where Adam had positioned himself in front of the wall the camera was pointing at. He pushed his shoulders back and his chest forward, proudly staring straight ahead. Despite having dirt rubbed on his face and bare arms, his black eye from the previous day was still visible, so furrowing his brows in thought, Dean turned him slightly, positioning him so that his swollen and puffy eye wasn’t as visible. He removed the helmet from Adam’s head, telling him, “Hold it with your left hand – yes, like that, perfect, and with your other hand, maybe hold onto the strap of your pack? And then…” He turned, reaching out to grab one of the chains of bullets that the soldier closest to him had thrown over his shoulder, asking permission from the soldier by raising a questioning eyebrow when his fingers grazed the cold metal. The soldier nodded, shrugging the ammunition off and handing it to the photographer. Adam swallowed nervously, watching the exchange.

“I… I don’t like guns,” he told Dean quietly while he arranged them over his shoulders and around his neck.

Dean looked at him with a sympathetic look on his face. “I know,” he said placing a hand on his shoulder and lowering his voice. He hadn’t actually, but it was the first thing that had come out of his mouth. “But it’s only for a little bit; you can take them off as soon as I’m done, okay? It won’t take long, I promise.” Comforted, the young soldier nodded, resuming his proud and defiant stance. The other soldiers looked on inquisitively as Dean moved behind his camera, giving Adam a couple of basic directions such as where to look at, just turn this way slightly, raise your chin, just a little bit more, yes that’s it… relax your hold on your helmet, all the while snapping a few shots here and there. Finally, he lifted his head and smiled.

“Done,” he said. His new friend gave him a weak smile of relief, removing the bullets from around his neck and handing them back to their owner as he walked out of the camera’s line of vision, almost as if in a daze. Opening his mouth to ask for the next solider, Dean was surprised to find him already striding forward to take Adam’s position. It was the soldier with photograph of the woman in his helmet. Dean slipped out from the camera to adjust his stance, telling him to keep his helmet on and turning him so that the woman’s picture was able to be seen. He adjusted the soldier’s grip on his gun, placing it in his left hand with the barrel pointing towards the floor, and raised his other hand to clutch at the strap of his pack, like he had with Adam.

As he had before, Dean gave out a few basic instructions while he was behind the camera, and after taking a few pictures, he had moved onto the next soldier, a curly-haired man with leaves and twigs stuck in the band of his helmet. The following soldier was the cocky one who had mooned him. He had cheekily unbuttoned and unzipped his vest, revealing his pale chest, and shot Dean a brash and self-assured grin as he stepped in front of the camera. Dean did nothing but raise his eyebrows, draping a chain of bullets over his right shoulder to clasp with his hand and telling him to balance his helmet on his left hip, giving him a floorboard to the soldier’s left of the camera to stare down at. At his directions, the soldier did so, replacing the shit-eating smirk on his face with something far more sober and serious, causing Dean to nearly do a double take. A few clicks later, he was done.

Dean was over halfway through the squad’s soldiers when Sergeant McTavish came in, a look of surprise softening his face when he saw what was going on. He raised an eyebrow and leaned against a wall of the hall, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Dean at work. He didn’t offer any comment, but simply stood there, staring. Adam, who had cleaned himself up and returned his equipment back to the bunk house, sidled up to McTavish and struck up a conversation just as Dean finished with his current soldier, Evans’ moustached friend.

“You should get Dean to photograph you,” Adam suggested to the bulky sergeant. “He’s really good.” Dean flushed, hearing Adam’s praise. Surprisingly though, McTavish didn’t refuse, pushing himself off the wall and hesitantly walking over to Dean, who realised that the sergeant was waiting for him to say something.

“Uh, yeah, just…” he glanced at the remaining soldiers and then back at Sergeant McTavish, who took his glance to mean that he wanted to finish the rest of the squad first.

“I can come back later,” he offered in his deep, rumbling voice, and Dean’s head shot up at the sound of it. The softer tone of the sergeant was quite different to the previous night, when every word had dripped with authority and the intention of intimidation.

“No no no,” the photographer hastily replied, “that’s not a problem at all. I’m just…” He gestured at McTavish, who was just wearing the khaki uniform of a soldier and then back at the other soldiers who had yet to have their picture taken, decked out in their equipment. Understanding burned in McTavish’s eyes. 

“Um…” Dean went on to say, rubbing the nape of his neck with his hand as he thought, “just, um, stand in front of the camera for a moment…” McTavish did as he was told, while Dean sought after a helmet, belt and bags of equipment he could borrow. Successful, he returned to where Sergeant McTavish stood, arranging the borrowed equipment the way he wanted it on the bald and ageing soldier. He gave a satisfied nod following an evaluating eye as he surveyed his work before returning to his place behind the camera. After listening to Dean’s tips about how he should stand and his posture, McTavish settled on loosely clutching one of the small satchels on his belt, twisting his body to a small extent and staring intensely out one of the windows in the corner of the room while his left hand held his helmet, like so many of the other soldiers. Shortly, Dean finished taking a couple shots, and looked up at the hardened soldier, giving him a cautious smile. “That’s it,” he said. “You’re done.”

Sergeant McTavish nodded and stepped away, handing back the borrowed equipment to its respective owners. After a few short words to a couple of the men, he left without a second glance, the door of the hall swinging shut behind him. There was silence for a few seconds, the soldiers staring after him.

Dean cleared his throat, the sound awkward and intrusive in the silence. The men turned to stare at him. “Who’s next?” he offered weakly.

*****

At some point afterwards, Dean turned around, ready to call the next soldier in front of the camera, to find that only Evans was left in the room with him, smoking another cigarette. He tried to keep his facial expression neutral and stop the surprise from filtering onto his face, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was.

“Just you, is it?” he asked, watching as Evans raised his head, the expression on his face saying he clearly wasn’t impressed about something. Dean hoped it had nothing to do with him. He had watched the man take on Turner last night, and knew that if the soldier wanted to threaten him or hurt him in some way, there’d be nothing he could do to stop it from happening.

“Where do you want me,” Evans said, the question being flattened by his bored and abrupt tone. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off muscled forearms.

Dean breathed in sharply, unsure why he was so nervous. “Just in front of the camera for the moment,” he answered. “I’ll figure out something.” Evans nodded briefly, about to put out his cigarette. “No, don’t,” Dean said hastily, stopping him. The soldier looked up. “Keep it,” Dean continued. “The cigarette, I mean. It’ll add a bit of… character.”

Evans shrugged and snorted, taking another drag and shuffling in front of the camera. He was more simply dressed than some of the others had been, with only his belt, vest, helmet and bullets hefted over his shoulder. Dean had him turn away from the camera, towards the door of the hall, and tuck his helmet under his arm, cigarette in the soldier’s mouth. At the New Zealander’s suggestion, Evans stared at the floor, a serious expression on his face.

“Thank you,” Dean said quietly, after he had taken a couple of pictures. “For last night, I mean. Standing up for me in front of Turner.”

Evans eyes flashed slightly slipping out of his pose to lift his cigarette out of his mouth with his fingers and blow out smoke. “I didn’t do it for you,” he said, and Dean flinched at the harsh tone of the other man. “I warned you. I said to stick with me if you didn’t want trouble, and what’s the first thing you do? Go and make friends with Brown. It’s your own fault, and if it wasn’t for the fact that it was your first day and you let your naivety dictate your actions, you woulda been dealing with Turner on your own.” He scowled heavily at the camera, and Dean inhaled sharply, wishing that someone else would walk in and save him from the scathing glare that the young soldier was sending his way.

“Head down,” he said, sharper than he intended, and for a minute he thought that Evans would ignore what he said and just stalk out, leaving him behind. But after a few seconds – and very _tense_ seconds they were indeed – Evans did as he was told, shoving the cigarette back into his mouth. “You didn’t warn me about anything,” he added, clicking his camera as he spoke. “You told me your _own_ thoughts about him – that you think he’s a psycho and a martyr, someone who wants to die. And maybe from what Adam told me, it’s true that he wants to die. But what you _didn’t_ tell me was that he’s a man who’s haunted by his past, and someone who’s dealt with obviously a lot of hardships in his life. That I can understand and sympathise with, alright? The past explains a lot about a person’s actions, and I would have accepted that explanation, but you straight out told me he was a loony, just about. There’s _always_ a reason,” Dean finished, slightly surprised by where his big speech came from. But when he thought about, he realised that he believed in his words strongly, and knew that somehow, he was right.

 Evans removed his cigarette again, spitting on the dusty floor by his feet. “And you fucking believe all that bullshit that Brown’s told you? Then you’re more stupid and delusional than I thought,” he sneered. “I _told_ you to stay away from Turner.” He stilled suddenly, as if a thought occurred to him. “You think you can fix him, is that it? You think that you’ll be able to befriend him and with a few words and a fucking photograph everything will be okay? That he’ll start confiding in you and you’ll be best buddies?” He started striding towards Dean, using his height advantage, and Dean went stumbling backwards, moving back as fast as he could while Evans kept advancing. He felt the thud resonate throughout his body as his back hit the wall, and he gulped, looking up into Evans’ angry face as the other soldier towered over him. He had another flashback – yet again to the night before – of Evans grabbing Turner by the shirt and slamming him back into the wall with all his strength, and Dean felt his eyes drop unwillingly to the soldier’s large biceps, sure that Evans would do the same to him.

“No one can fix that animal,” Evans continued harshly, “not even some country _hick_ who waltzes in here with his fucking camera and his fucking childish view of the world, with the belief that everything is fair and just, and whatever the fuck else.” The soldier was angry now, absolutely and terrifyingly furious, and the emotion radiated off him in waves. “But it’s not. _War_ isn’t fair, and people die – _good_ people who don’t _deserve anything bad_ – and nothing you can do could ever change that. Friends _die_ in front of your eyes, their bodies peppered with bullets. People who are like brothers are there one minute and the next there’s a cloud of dust and a bang, and suddenly they’re raining down on you in little pieces of bloody _flesh and bone_.” Dean closed his eyes and couldn’t stop the shudder that racked his body. He could feel the raggedness of Evans’ breath on his cheek as he turned his face away from the young man, smell the smoke from his cigarette. “Turner is _not_ the only victim out here, but the fucking conceited _bastard_ acts like he is and that his pain and sufferance is so much more terrible than anything the rest of us have gone through,” he hissed. “He’s built himself up onto a pedestal where he thinks he’s some fucking god of grief and agony and we’re all just the inconveniences who no one gives a _shit_ about because he’s a selfish imbecile who believes everything has to be about him. And when it’s not he becomes a friggin’ three year old who throws a tantrum to get attention.”

The photo-shoot had been forgotten, and for a brief and terrible moment, Dean really thought that Evans was going to turn physical with him and beat him to a pulp, leaving him to bleed out all alone over the wooden floorboards.

“I told you,” Evans repeated. “But if a hick like you thinks he knows better than someone who’s seen things firsthand…” he trailed off with a snarl, and Dean was trembling now, he couldn’t help it. It was like high school all over again, except that Evans didn’t have a gang of bullies to back him up. Not that he needed it. He was doing just fine at being an intimidating prick all by himself. “It’s your own damn funeral,” Evans finished nastily. He let his threat sink in before turning and marching off, throwing a “We’re done here,” over his shoulder. Dean allowed himself to open his eyes and let out a shaky breath after the soldier had taken a few steps, and Evans had almost reached the door when Dean called out.

“You know what?” Evans paused, keeping his back to the photographer but cocking his head slightly to prove that he was listening. “I think you’re just jealous of the fact that you two used to be best friends and now you’re not. Now he’s got Adam, and you’re left alone.” Dean didn’t know where his words or his sudden burst of courage had appeared from, but when Evans turned his ice-cold glare on him, his knees started to shake and buckle.

“If I had my gun with me and this was a different situation,” he spat, his voice deadly calm and as sharp as knives, “I would kill you right now. You don’t know what the _hell you’re talking about_ and you should have stayed at home with your mommy, little boy, instead of coming out here and pretending to be a man.” He left, slamming the door behind him and sending the windows rattling.

With a half-sobbed gasp, Dean slid to the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his hands.

*****

Adam found him a shortly after, curled in on himself and sitting alone.

“Hey, Dean?” he called out as he entered the room. “Luke said you were finished, but you hadn’t come back yet, and I- ” He broke off, seeing the man sitting in a ball on the floor. “Dean? Are you okay?” Concern immediately flooded into his voice and he quickly closed the door behind him, hurrying over to his friend. Dropping to his knees and placing a hand on his shoulder, Adam rubbed small circles in a soothing motion as Dean raised his head and swiped at his red eyes with his hands angrily, muttering a short and terse, “’m fine.”

Adam paused on seeing that the other man had been crying. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked gently. “Are you… are you homesick? Because I know what that’s like. Do you- ”

“I’m not homesick!” Dean broke in angrily, raising his head and glaring. Adam widened his eyes and removed his hand. Dean sighed angrily, dropping his head into his hands again. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I just… I didn’t mean to snap. I’m sorry.”

Adam echoed his sigh, shifting to sit on the ground beside him. “It’s okay,” he said, and from the forgiveness in his voice, Dean knew that Adam didn’t hold his brief outburst against him, which only made him feel worse. They sat in silence for what felt like ages, while Dean tried to compose himself. “C’mon,” Adam said suddenly, rising to his feet and offering Dean a helping hand. Dean took it, pushing himself off the ground as Adam pulled, and soon he was standing too. “I’ll help you pack away your stuff.”

A quick glance revealed that Dean’s camera and equipment were still set up, and he felt a brief surge of surprise. Truthfully, he had forgotten all about it and the photo-shoot from earlier in the day, Evans’ spiteful words still ringing in his head: _If I had my gun with me and this was a different situation, I would kill you right now_. Dean knew that he had made an enemy, and a dangerous one at that. He barely noticed what his hands were doing as he packed away his stuff, and with someone else to help him, the job was finished in no time.

“I need a drink,” Dean exhaled, passing a hand over his face.

“I can take these back for you if you wanna head over to the Mess Hall,” Adam offered. “There’s a tap in the kitchen out the back which gives drinkable water, and you can just ask one of the staff for a glass.”

“You don’t mind?”

Adam shrugged. “Go on. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you back in the bunk house.” He hefted the bags of equipment into his skinny arms and with one last comforting smile at Dean, he left.

Biting his lip, Dean followed seconds after, ducking his head down as he was met with bright and unforgiving sunshine, but also partly because he didn’t want other soldiers to notice and point out his ruddy cheeks and bloodshot, puffy eyes. He managed to make his way to the Mess Hall without any incident, and entered the building to find it empty and deserted. Sunlight streamed in through the windows on one wall, creating rectangles of golden light on the floor and highlighting the dust motes that somehow managed to swirl and dance in the still air. Dean cautiously made his way through the side door that he guessed led to the kitchen and was placed by the bench where the meals were served.

“Hello?” he called out hesitantly, glancing around at the stainless-steel bench-tops and large industrial ovens and stoves. He received no answer, so he took a few steps forward, finally laying eyes on a sink. He hurried to toward it, turning on the tap to see clear water run easily into the sink. Testing it with a finger, he found that it was cool.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Dean gasped and spun around, clutching the edges of the sink with his hands as he stared at a disgruntled Aidan. “I- I- ” He swallowed, fighting his fear of the other man that he told himself was irrational. _But then, what had that Texan soldier said about killing his family? Although Adam had_ sworn _he was lying.._. “I needed a drink, and Adam told me to come here. What are _you_ doing here?”

Aidan stared at him, his expression unreadable, but clearly leaning towards the unhappy side of things. “Kitchen duty,” he said in his drawling Irish lilt. His stare intensified and Dean flushed and turned away as he felt the Irishman’s dark eyes travel over his face, still reddened from earlier. “Have you been _crying_?”

“Fuck off,” Dean snapped, before flinching, like he expected the other man to lunge forward and tear out his throat. “Sorry,” he muttered, immeadiately regretting his rudeness. Aidan shrugged, turning away to lift a large pot from the stove and place it on one of the benches.

“Homesick?” came the question. Dean startled once more. From what he’d heard and what Adam had told him, the impression he had gotten of Aidan was that he kept to himself and didn’t talk to anybody but Adam unless he was in the middle of an argument with someone, presumably another soldier like Evans or the blonde Texan. Dean didn’t understand why the hell he was choosing to talk to _him_ of all people, but he decided to let it slide, trying to ignore Evans’ words from earlier. If Aidan wanted to talk to him, then bloody hell, he’d give him a conversation.

“Why does everyone think that?” he muttered, half to himself and half to the enigmatic soldier.

“’Cause home’s a long way away out here,” Aidan replied. “Try the cupboard to your right if you’re lookin’ for a mug or glass.”

“I- ” Dean began, but he cut himself off, shaking his head as he reached up and opened the cupboard that had been singled out, plucking a glass out and closing the door again. “Thanks,” he said. The tap was still running, so he held the glass underneath it. Turning the tap off, he raised the glass to his lips and took a couple of gulps, sighing as the cool and refreshing liquid slid down his throat. Aidan had disappeared behind a shelf stacked with pots and pans, but Dean could hear him clattering away at something. “If you must know,” he began, unsure of why he was telling Aidan this, “your mate Evans is the biggest fucking dipshit ever to have graced the planet.”

To his surprise, his statement was met with a snort and what _could_ have been a tiny chuckle. “Thought you were buddies,” was the response, although ‘thought’ sounded more like ‘taught’ as a result of the Irish accent.

“Oh yeah,” Dean drawled sarcastically. “We’re the best of friends.”

Aidan didn’t say anything for a while, and Dean was just about to put his empty glass down, call out a simple and tentative “Bye,” and leave, but then he asked, “You friends with Adam?” His voice was quieter than it had been before, and there was a certain tenderness to it when he spoke of Adam.

Dean nodded, then remembered that Aidan couldn’t see him. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s taken me under his wing.”  

“That’d be enough to make Evans hate you on its own,” Aidan said. There was a pause before he continued, his voice low. “Adam’s a good kid. Loyal, and willing to stand up for his friends. You couldn’t find a much better person out here if you tried.”

There was a sudden commotion, and one of the kitchen workers entered. He clearly held a position of power within the kitchen from the way he carried himself and his tone of voice when he said coldly to Aidan, “You’re supposed to be on kitchen duty, Turner, not standing around gossiping like an old woman.” Through a gap in some hanging pots, Dean could see Aidan scowl, the angry and intimidating expression that he generally wore sliding back onto his face. “And you,” the man said, catching sight of Dean. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I needed a drink and was told to come here,” Dean hastened to provide, feeling like a naughty school boy who was being reprimanded.

“You’ve had your drink, now get lost,” came the order. Dean placed his used glass on the sink, hurrying back out of the kitchen. Feeling eyes bore into his back as he reached for the door, he turned, meeting Aidan’s hypnotic gaze. There was something unsettling and piercing about it, like the Irish soldier could see into the depths of his soul, and Dean quickly tore his eyes away before fleeing the kitchen.

*****

 Adam was true to his word, waiting for Dean in the bunk house. Dean was relieved to find that they were the only two people in the building; he couldn’t have faced another soldier at the moment, particularly Evans or one of his friends. His head was still reeling – from both Evans’ words and the fact that Aidan had willingly spoken to him, and in a civil tongue, mind you.

He flashed a grateful smile at Adam when he saw that his equipment had been placed carefully with the rest of his stuff. The soldier was reclining on his bunk, a photograph of what looked like a young woman in his hands, and he hastily hurried to shove it under his pillow when he saw Dean, a light flush staining his cheeks.

“Found the tap okay then?” he asked, rolling onto his side to look up at the other man. Dean replied with a hum, bending over to sift through his bags absent-mindedly. He hesitated, unsure whether he should tell Adam he’d seen his friend, but sympathy for the young man won over, and he said, almost as an after-thought, “I um… I met Aidan in the kitchen.”

“You did?!” Adam sat up so quickly he hit his head on the bunk above him with a loud clang. He hissed, rubbing his forehead and Dean voiced an empathetic “Ouch.” “Was he okay? Did he look angry or pissed off? Was he- ”

Dean raised his hands to stem the flow of questions, straightening up and turning around to lean against the rungs leading up to his bunk. He frowned, confused, and still thinking about their conversation, brief as it was. “It was… strange. I mean, I was under the impression that he’s someone who keeps to himself and doesn’t like to talk to anybody but you and a few others, but…” He shrugged. “He initiated the short conversation we had.”

“Aidan _spoke_ to you?!” Adam’s voice was high with incredulousness. “But…” He sounded and looked as confused as Dean felt. “But he _never_ does that.” He bit his lip in thought, then glanced up at Dean in the dim light. “What did he say? Please tell me he didn’t threaten you or anything. I’ve _told_ him not to do that but he just doesn’t listen…”

“No, nothing threatening at all,” Dean said, and Adam released a sigh that was both reassured and disbelieving, unable to comprehend the out-of-character behaviour of his friend. “He just…” He shrugged again. “He asked me what I was doing, pointed out where the glasses were, rudely inquired whether I’d been… crying because I was homesick, and then seemed to remember that I’d befriended you.” The young soldier’s eyes widened at that. “He told me that you were very loyal to your friends, and I couldn’t find a better person out here if I tried.”

“He… he said that?” Adam whispered. “About _me_?”

Dean smiled at him. “You’re his friend, aren’t you?”

The other man shook his head, his eyebrows high. “Wow. That’s… Aidan’s never done that before. Talked to a new person, that is. It’s completely unexpected and unheard of. He stays as far away from newbies as he can.” He looked up hurriedly. “Not that I meant anything insulting by that.”

The photojournalist shrugged it off. “It’s true,” he said. “I am new here, and I don’t know how things work. It’s fine.”

Both men were silent, and then Adam said, “You should try and talk to him some more, you know. That Aidan you saw yesterday, with Luke and Private Matheson,” Dean guessed he was referring to the blonde Texan, “that’s not who he is at all. Aidan is a completely different person when you talk to him at the right time. Funny, smart, fun, stubborn and protective…” He gave a small smile as he obviously reminisced about those times. He looked at Dean. “You should talk to him again. Especially if he talked to you first. Maybe even ask him about taking his photo. You got all of the squad but him, including Sergeant McTavish.”

Dean hummed in agreement, already beginning to imagine how good photographs of the dark and handsome Irishman would turn out.

Adam inadvertently broke him out of his daydream by sighing. “Come on,” he said, standing up.  “We should head over to the Mess Hall for lunch.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe that Aidan spoke to you.” He grinned at Dean. “Maybe he likes you. I told you that you seemed different from all the others.”

The young man’s words sent butterflies fluttering in Dean’s stomach, and he smiled to himself as he followed Adam out of the bunk house and to the Mess Hall.

*****

The rest of the day passed without incident, though Dean found himself thinking often of his run-in with Aidan. He couldn’t get the other man out of his head, and if Adam thought that the photographer’s sudden distraction and loss of concentration was strange, he didn’t comment on it, something for which Dean was grateful.

There was considerable tension in the bunk house that night, and not once did Evans look at or speak to Dean, who stuck close to Adam. The other soldiers cast curious glances between the two men, but didn’t say anything. Surely, Dean thought, they must have wondered why Evans – who had stuck up for Dean the previous night against Turner – was ignoring the newest addition to the squad for seemingly no reason at all. Wisely, nothing was said on the matter, though Adam did lean over to Dean and whisper in his ear, “What’s with you and Luke?”, to which Dean only shot him a stare that clearly told him to leave things alone, shaking his head the tiniest fraction. With a resigned sigh Adam dropped the subject, although Dean was sure that the soldier hadn’t given up completely.

He slept fitfully that night, and when he woke up the next morning Dean couldn’t remember any of his dreams except for the fact that they involved dark eyes and an Irish-accented voice. His body remembered though, and Dean gritted his teeth in frustration and embarrassment, rolling over to face the wall and shoving a fist into his mouth as he took care of his ‘problem’. He knew if the other soldiers discovered his sexual preference, they’d alienate him. Unnatural things like partnerships involving two men had no place in the world in their eyes, and if they found out that his arousal had been over a _suicidal psycho_ – no, that wasn’t true. Aidan had been perfectly civil to him in the kitchen yesterday – that would be even worse.

He had no time to dwell on his thoughts or dreams as after breakfast he was shipped off to the Briefing Room with the rest of the squad, which sat next to the building where the commanding officers kept their offices. They were met there by Sergeant McTavish and Colonel Stott. Dean took a seat next to Adam in the back row of chairs that had been set out, unsure why he had been told to come. Thinking about being sent out into the jungle – even though McTavish and Stott reassured the men that they’d be placed in a relatively safe and quiet area – made him nervous, and he wanted to throw up. There was a sick feeling in his stomach, and he deepened his breathing to try and help his anxiety. Adam guessed what was going through his mind and turned to give a wide smile, both reassuring and kindly sympathetic, yet there was still a hint of nervousness that Dean could detect in it. Leaning over, he whispered, “I’ve been in this room heaps of times before like this, and it never gets any easier. Trust me, you’re not the only one who’s anxious.”

 _Terrified_ would be a better word, Dean thought, but he found truth in the young soldier’s words when he noticed the soldier who’d had the woman’s photograph stuck in his helmet during yesterday’s photo-shoot wringing his hands in his lap, his knuckles white.

There was a spare chair next to Adam that hadn’t been filled, and Dean guessed that that would have been where Aidan would have sat if not for his solitary confinement. Stott and McTavish would probably brief him on his own, maybe adding some orders of their own that were specific only to the Irishman.

After being told the basic aspects of their mission – to ‘hold the fort’ until another squad was sent to relieve them and to deal with any Viet Cong or other enemy guerrilla groups of ‘gooks’ (as Evans had called them) swiftly and effectively.

In other words, kill them in cold blood mercilessly.

Dean felt extremely uncomfortable with such talk, but none of the other men save Adam seemed to share his concerns. For God’s sake, they may have been the enemy, but they were still _people_. It all seemed barbaric to him, and when he later voiced this thought to Adam, the youth only smiled sadly and said that although he shared the same thoughts, it wasn’t as simple as that once you were out there in the wild and untamed tropical forests. It was a matter of life and death, of kill-or-be-killed, and men were capable of doing _anything_ if they were desperate enough.

All in all, when Dean left the briefing with the rest of the men a short time later with instructions to be ready and waiting at ‘oh-eight-hundred hours’ the next morning, his shit-scared feeling of absolute horror that he’d felt upon first arriving in Vietnam had returned with a vengeance. And he was sure that he had gone pale. He was so focused on making it out of the room without vomiting that he reached the door the same time as Evans. Both men tried to exit at the same time, which resulted in Evans snarling and roughly shouldering Dean out of the way, sending him stumbling into the wall backwards with a reasonably loud thud. His loss of balance caused him to fall, landing on the floor in a sprawling heap. The men of the squad immeadiately fell silent, watching the scene with eyes that were both interested and unsure. Adam looked positively petrified, his eyes flickering back and forth between Evans and Dean, a light of understanding beginning to flicker in his muddy brown eyes.

“What’s going on?”

McTavish and Stott had looked up from where they were reviewing plans and maps on the desk at the front of the room, and McTavish, who had spoken, had started to stride over to the group, coming to stand just behind Dean. Evans sneered down at the photographer, who refused to meet anyone’s eyes, and told the sergeant snidely, “O’Gorman tripped, sir. I can’t help it if our paparazzo is clumsy.”

There was dead silence. Dean’s cheeks burned, and he stared steadily at the floor. Sergeant McTavish didn’t say anything, but suddenly a large hand was thrust into Dean’s line of vision and he chanced a look upwards, seeing the older man offering a hand. He carefully took it, the sergeant helping to haul him up off the floor. He muttered a “Thanks,” to the soldier that was barely heard, but McTavish inclined his head briefly, indicating that he had. Adam immeadiately found his way to Dean’s side.

“You better watch that clumsiness of yours,” McTavish rumbled, but he wasn’t looking at the photographer. He was staring straight at Evans, who flushed deeply before turning on his heel and flouncing out the door. The rest of the men, Adam and Dean included hastily exited the building too, although Adam pulled Dean aside after the door had shut beside them and hissed, “What was that about?!” as he grabbed onto Dean’s arm.

Dean pulled his arm away, beginning to stalk off. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered darkly.

“Don’t you _dare_ give me that bullshit excuse,” Adam retorted, and the New Zealander started; it was the first time he had heard the normally timid and shy soldier swear. “I get enough of that from Aidan, and I’m not having it from you. _What_ is going on between you and Luke? Dean? Dean! Answer me, dammit!” He hastened to keep up.

Dean lengthened his stride. “Seriously, Adam. _Drop it_.”

“No!” came the defiant answer. They turned a corner, and Adam grabbed Dean’s arm, dragging him over behind one of the weatherboard buildings. He furtively swung his head around, but there was no one else in sight. “ _Tell_ me. I can help, I could- ”

“No,” Dean looked at him pointedly as he turned around, swinging his arms wide in his anger. “You can’t. You couldn’t do anything, even if you wanted to.”

The young soldier was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes wide and his face flushed in his determination. “Dean- ”

With a frustrated groan, Dean cut him off. “He threatened me, okay? He all but told me yesterday that he would’ve killed me had he had his gun with him. I didn’t- I didn’t sign on for shit like this! I didn’t _ask_ for this to happen to me!” he garbled, the words frantically spewing out of his mouth with a renewed vigour.

“Oh, _Dean_ ,” Adam breathed, horrified.

Dean’s legs were shaking and he had to lean back against the building to steady himself. He buried his face in his hands, rubbing at his skin when he pulled them away. “You didn’t see him, Adam,” he said lowly. “He was fucking intimidating, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t _move_ , I couldn’t _breathe_ , I couldn’t _do anything_ , I was shitting myself. I literally thought he was going to smash my face in and break me in half.”

Adam was quiet, reaching out to place a tentative hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Luke… Luke wouldn’t do something like that randomly. He wouldn’t. You would have to provoke him somehow to get that sort of response from him. You would have had to have said something.” The blonde photographer didn’t say anything. “Dean,” Adam’s voice was strained and incredibly worried now, becoming all the more so when the man refused to look him in the eye. “What did you say to Luke? _What did you say?_ ”

Feeling his head come to rest against the building with a thump, Dean stared at the sky, unwilling to cast even a fleeting look and the soldier in front of him. “He said,” he began, but his voice was quiet and cracked on the second word, so he cleared his throat and started again. “He said that he warned me about staying out of trouble and that I created it by becoming friends with you.” Adam hissed; a sharp intake of breath that punctuated the surrounding air. “He meant it to be a dig at Aidan, and I…” Dean swallowed, closing his eyes momentarily, “I said that maybe he was jealous. About the fact that you were friends with Aidan and he wasn’t.”

“You didn’t.” Adam’s tone spoke of his disbelief. “Tell me you didn’t say that.”

“You just asked me to tell you what I said,” Dean retorted angrily. “And know you want me to turn around and say, ‘Oh no, Adam, I was just joking, haha’?”

“Luke is the most respected soldier in the squad,” Adam went on. “All the other men look up to him. And you just pissed him off. Big time. Dean, out of everything that you could have said to him, that was the most _stupidest thing_ of all. Aidan and Luke _hate_ each other; there’s absolutely no remnant of friendship or brotherliness between them at all. It’s just pure, unadulterated animosity. And by implying that there was something there? You just insulted Luke in the worst way ever, and he’s never going to forgive you for that. You’ve made a dangerous enemy now. And you just better hope that he doesn’t turn the others against you either, because come tomorrow, when we’re out in the jungle, an inexperienced person like you is going to need all the help he can get just to survive.” Adam shook his head disappointedly, making Dean feel like shit. He just wanted a giant sinkhole to open up beneath him and swallow him whole. “You have no one to blame but yourself for this. Seriously. I am not getting involved in this, even though you are my friend. So is Luke, but what happened between him and Aidan is _their_ business; not mine. Not yours. And you’d do best to stay out of it and _never_ bring it up again.” With a dejected sigh, and another shake of his head, Adam walked off, leaving Dean staring after the back of his retreating friend. And not for the first time since arriving, Dean felt dreadfully alone and insignificant, reigniting his wish that he had never accepted this damn assignment in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The descriptions of the soldiers during the photo-shoot have all been taken from the photo's on Dean's website, so check them out if you haven't already.
> 
> The 'Additional Information' post is still in the process of being made, but in the mean time, if you have any questions about anything that I can answer for you, don't hesitate to leave me a comment or even (if you'd prefer) find me on tumblr under the same url and username as my AO3 identity. I'll make sure to answer them as best I can.


	4. 3 - Deadly Weapons of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to say a massive THANK YOU to everyone who has commented and left me absolutely lovely feedback. Seriously, it makes my day when I get comments on this story, and the fact that so many of you are enjoying this makes me unbelievably happy. This chapter starts to get into the thick of things, with the men leaving for the war zone. Unfortunately, its the beginning of what I feel could potentially contain incorrect facts, etc., so I apologise for anything that may occur in this (or future) chapter(s) that may be wrong.

Dean spent the rest of the day hiding out up on his bunk, trying to jot down notes in his notebook for the article he was required to write to accompany the pictures he’d take. In truth, his mind was numb, his stomach sick with nerves and guilt, and he just wanted to curl up in a ball and go home. Though his mind was unable to come up with adequate words for his article, it kept torturing him by replaying snippets of all three of his conversations with Evans, Aidan and Adam. He saw the three men in his mind’s eye, all staring at him with different expressions. _I would kill you right now,_ spoke Evans’ ghost, staring at him with nothing other than unfiltered hatred burning in his eyes. _You have no one to blame but yourself_ , chided Adam as his ghost wore a disappointed yet slightly sympathetic expression. _Come tomorrow, when we’re out in the field, an inexperienced person like you is going to need all the help he can get just to survive._ And Aidan? Dean simply couldn’t get the image of the soldier staring intensely after him out of his head, his gaze unreadable though strong. _Home’s a long way away out here,_ the ghost of the Irishman said softly _._ Yeah, as if he didn’t know that already.

A sudden commotion at the door made Dean startle, dropping his head and trying to look engrossed in his notebook as a soldier walked in. He didn’t dare look up for fear that it was Adam or Evans – neither of which he was willing to face at the moment. If he stayed silent enough, maybe whoever it was wouldn’t notice him…

“What are _you_ doing here?” came the question followed by an exasperated sigh.

Dean stiffened. “Haven’t you asked me that question enough times already?” he asked flatly, raising his head to see Aidan standing in front of him, his dark eyes level with the metal railing of the top bunk. He squinted slightly in the dim light, trying to read the Irishman’s expression, which was only made more difficult by the stubble that shadowed the lower half of his face. “That always seems to be the first thing out of your mouth whenever you see me. And anyway, what happened to ‘solitary confinement’?”

“I had to pack for tomorrow somehow,” was the scathing remark as Aidan ducked out of view, and Dean heard him ruffling around his things as he started to prepare for tomorrow’s departure. “No one was supposed to be here, though.”

They fell into silence, Dean scratching out a random pattern on his blank notebook page.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Aidan finally said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m a fucking idiot,” the photographer replied, guilt and embarrassment evident in his voice.

“Wallowing in self-pity, are we?” came the knowing remark, and Dean could just imagine a self-satisfied, smug look decorating the other man’s face.

“Yeah, and you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” Dean retorted snappily, immeadiately regretting his words as a strained tension descended on the room.

“You know not’in’ about me,” came Turner’s cold reply only seconds later. “So don’ you _dare_ come in here all self-righteous and thinking you’re a golden fookin’ _god_ or somet’in, like you’re bet’er than everyone else.” Emotion only served to thicken his accent severely, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat as Turner straightened to glare at him. He was glad that he was sitting because if he’d been standing, he would have surely buckled to the floor. No matter how intimidating Evans’ cold and furious scowl had been, he had absolutely _nothing_ on Turner’s glower at all.

Dean shrunk backwards, clutching his empty notebook to his chest as a meagre form of protection. His bones shook with fear, for here in front of him was a man who had witnessed _terrible_ things, who had killed and would kill again – if not for his own sake, then to protect someone like Adam – someone who had gained more life-experience in a week out here in Vietnam than Dean would ever have in his own life. Taking a shuddery breath, he spoke, a desperate attempt to stop Turner from climbing up onto his bunk and strangling him.

“You’re right,” he said softly. “I don’t know you, and it was stupid to say something like that. I’m sorry. But you’re _wrong_ about the fact that I think I’m better than everyone else. Because I don’t. At all. You guys are all out here fighting a war – a war that’s not even for your own country – and if I hadn’t accepted this bloody assignment, I’d probably be out photographing the city I live in or doing commissions – _anything_ but this. And that probably makes me a coward, but you know what? I don’t care. I’d rather live to an old age and be doing something I love that may seem trivial rather than – what was it? Oh yeah. ‘Go down in a blaze of bullets and a haze of bloody red’ while seeking a life filled with glory. But just because I think that, it _doesn’t_ mean I’m not in awe or ungrateful for the sacrifice you soldiers are making every day out here. You’re all incredibly brave and selfless, and I envy you for those traits.”

Turner’s eyes hardened, his thick brows flattening. “You read it.”

“If you don’t want people to read things that are intended to be private, don’t write them in places where they can be read by everyone,” Dean said breezily, staring back at Turner and trying to appear a lot braver than he felt.

Turner gave a low growl and disappeared again, beginning to shove things into his pack. “You’re not scared of me,” he said suddenly, breaking the lull in conversation. “Not as scared as the others, anyway.”

The blonde man shrugged to himself, grateful that the other man hadn’t noticed his trembling hands. “Should I be?” His voice was curious.

“Anybody else but Adam or Evans woulda fuckin’ pissed ‘emselves by now.” There was no denying the hate that was evident in his voice when he spat Evans’ name.

“Well, I’ll let you know if my bladder suddenly decides to give out in your presence,” Dean drawled, and all of a sudden, it felt like he was back at home, caught in the middle of a friendly banter with his brother. There was a disbelieving snort from below. “I thought they were beautiful, by the way,” he added suddenly, his voice soft, not understanding why he was bringing it up. “Your words. Depressing and chilling, yeah, but beautiful nonetheless.”

Turner didn’t say anything, but Dean knew he had heard by the way he paused in his actions.

Taking a breath, the photographer pressed on. “I… I was wondering, I mean…” He hesitated, not sure how to phrase his words. “Yesterday, I uh, took pictures of all the other men in the squad. Like a photo-shoot type thing. Even Sergeant McTavish. But uh, you… you weren’t there, so I was wondering…”

“You want to photograph me?” Aidan said softly, almost incredulously, catching on to what the New Zealander was getting at.

“Um,” Dean bit his lip. “Yeah.” And he did. Not just as a soldier, either. He wanted to devote a whole proper photo-shoot to this enigmatic Irishman, perhaps showing a side to him that many didn’t know existed. He imagined that in a perfect world, Aidan would agree, and maybe, after a long day of shooting pictures – perhaps in that park, just around the corner from Dean’s apartment; the trees were always lovely in autumn – one thing would lead to another, and–

“No.”

The single word jerked Dean out of his daydreams. “W-what?” he asked, startled. 

“I said, _no_ ,” Aidan repeated. He stood up, heaving his pack and the rest of his equipment over his shoulder. “No photographs. Not solitary portraits, anyway.” He glanced up through the metal partition of Dean’s bunk, his expression once again unreadable, his eyes slightly glazed over. He stood close enough that Dean could smell him – a musky, rich scent that made him long to breathe him in – and he could see his hair beginning to curl slightly on the tips as it grew longer.

“Why no- ” Dean began.

“ _Don’t_ ask me why,” Aidan broke in harshly. He ducked his head, refusing to meet the pair of blue eyes that stared fiercely at him in confusion. “I won’t tell you,” he said, his tone a touch more gentle than it was before. “So don’t ask me.”

Dean’s eyes traced the soldier’s face – the sadness that was now evident; the way it stained his complexion and made his mouth droop at the corners. He watched the Irishman take a deep breath and then exhale, his jaw tightening and clenching as he released it. Aidan raised his eyes, meeting those of the blonde photojournalist for a few long, drawn out seconds before he passed a hand through his hair, looking away and starting to move down the aisle.

Dean watched him go, listening to the gentle click of the bunk house door as Aidan shut it behind him, leaving Dean sitting in the dark.

*****

Adam found him later and persuaded him to come to the Mess Hall for dinner. Though he still retained his friendly and open tone, there was an underlying sharpness that told Dean the young man was still pissed off. He didn’t mention the surprise visit he’d had earlier from Aidan, partly out of spite and partly because he wanted to hoard the moment for himself.

The squad’s usual table was sparse; most of the soldiers were seated with other friends, a sort of farewell meal before they left tomorrow morning. Dean knew that there was a very real possibility that some of them might not be returning, and indeed, the mood was sombre and solemn, punctuated by the loud and raucous laughter from one of the tables across the room where Evans and most of his friends were settled.

He sat with Adam and two other soldiers at the table they normally frequented. None of the other three said much, apart from the rare murmur or mumble, and Dean didn’t know whether to feel grateful for the silence or whether to beg them for a conversation. A quick glance shot in the direction of Evans’ table confirmed that the men were obviously in high spirits, seemingly drunk on excitement and anticipation for tomorrow.

“Why are they acting like that?” Dean leaned over and muttered to Adam as a particularly loud roar rose up from the crowded table.

Adam followed his gaze. “It helps them to feel normal. And to forget about the dangers that will face us from tomorrow onwards. By having a good time with friends, it allows them to overlook the war for an appallingly short time and they don’t have to think about the fact that some might not come back.” He shrugged, returning his gaze down to his half-full plate, where he picked at his food. “They’re treasuring what could potentially be their last moments together,” he finished, leaving Dean still staring with a wistful expression on his face as he reminisced about the home and friends that he’d left back in New Zealand.

They left a short time later, both men unable to finish their meals. The thought of leaving the base camp was sitting heavily on their shoulders, and Dean felt that with every step he took he was getting closer to dying a young death out here in the jungles, alone and surrounded by strangers. It was dark outside, with the only lights coming from the brightly lit Mess Hall and the few bordering bunkhouses and offices. The dim light bulbs of their own bunkhouse swung slowly from side to side, spewing warm golden light out that barely reached the corners of the room. Adam helped Dean pack the necessities of the things he’d bought into a pack that’d been loaned to him from McTavish. The photographer swallowed hard, eyeing all the stuff he’d have to leave behind. He knew that there would be no comforts out in the wild, and he tried desperately to convince himself that he was just going on a camping trip with a bunch of guys who liked to role play soldiers. It didn’t work.

“So,” Adam muttered under his breath, keeping his voice down. A few of the more serious soldiers had returned and were double-checking their own packs, barely saying a word. Tension was high, broken only by a few murmurs. “When did Aidan come back?”

“What?” Dean raised his head in surprise, glancing across at the young man who had started on his own equipment.

“I know he came back,” Adam replied. “His stuff’s all gone.”

“Oh.” Feeling slightly sick, Dean climbed up onto his bunk and lay on his side, still keeping his eyes on his friend. He shrugged. “Some time in the afternoon. Didn’t say much. Just got his shit then left.” Adam was silent, waiting to see if there was more. “I um, mentioned the photo thing to him,” the blonde added.

“Yeah? What’d he say?”

“Flat out refused.” Dean rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, pressing his hand against his churning stomach. He exhaled heavily, blue eyes tracing the cracked plaster above him.

“Hey, you okay?” There was a frown in Adam’s voice.

Chuckling weakly, Dean swivelled his head to meet the soldier’s eyes through the metal railing. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Just… nerves and anxiety ‘bout tomorrow making me feel sick.”

Adam blew out his own sigh. “I was like that too,” he said. “The first few times I went out. Still am. I was pretty much a loner back then, though, and didn’t have any friends or even someone I could talk to. Then I got transferred into this squad, met a few people, made friends with Aidan…” He trailed off, shrugging. “I still get nervous before I go out there, but it’s not as bad. I’ve got people I can rely on, a friend I can talk to. And having that makes all the difference, even if it is very slight.”

“How’d you meet?” Adam frowned, not quite understanding. “You and Aidan, I mean. I just,” Dean rolled onto his front, pillowing his head on his arms. “I just need something to keep my mind off tomorrow,” he finished sheepishly.

The young man flashed him a brilliant smile tinged with sympathy. “No, it’s okay. I get it. Don’t worry about it, a lot of men get that way. Even the older soldiers who’ve been around longer. Sergeant… Armitage also used to become really apprehensive about going out in the field. But I guess when you’re a commander of others and hold their lives in your hands…” He shrugged. “As soon as this war is over, I’m outta here.” He plucked at the collar of his khaki shirt for emphasis. “I’m just not made for military stuff.” He fell silent for a few seconds before looking back up at Dean, who’d been watching him the whole time. “But you don’t wanna hear me ramble on about all that,” he waved his hand around, dismissing the topic. “So,” he went on. “Me and Aidan, huh?” He paused, thinking briefly about something. “It’s not really an exciting story or anything. I used to get pushed around a bit by the others.” Adam’s face clouded over bitterly. “Y’know, I don’t exactly fit in with the stereotypical idea of a handsome, muscly, strong soldier. I’m pretty weak, and skinny… and I’m not the bravest person out here at all. Anyway, Aidan was a loner, even back then. A lot of the men were intimidated by him. Most still are,” he added as an afterthought, and Dean could agree with that, still being slightly nervous around the Irish soldier himself. “So, one day, a few guys decided to pull me around to the back of one of the more secluded bunkhouses and have a go at me. I’d just ended up on the ground with a mouth full of dirt and winded when Aidan stepped in. Told them to leave me alone. Scared ‘em off with threats and promises of what he’d do to them if they laid another finger on me. I was pretty wary of him at first, but he helped me to the infirmary. He pretty much transformed into a different person personality-wise right in front of me then. He was kind, caring, and he seemed extremely protective.” Adam smiled at the memory. “I had a shadow for the next few days or so, despite the fact that I hadn’t managed to work up the courage to talk to him again. But during the time between that, his constant presence by my side made the others who had bullied me cautious about singling me out again. I’ll still never forget the day after Aidan stepped in, when some of the other men accosted me at my table during lunch. The whole room fell silent the minute Aidan set his lunch tray beside mine and sat down next to me. Everyone just sort of… froze. You could have heard a pin drop. We were sort of inseparable from then on, until Sergeant Armitage was killed. That’s when Aidan started to become more reclusive and go lookin’ for fights, never talking to anybody but me unless it was to violently swear at them or insult them. And then you came along.” Having fallen silent, Adam stared up at Dean, who was slightly uncomfortable with the young man’s intense and thoughtful gaze on him, and moved by the story Adam had woven. It seemed that there was a lot more to the Irishman than he’d first thought. It made sense though, having seen the man throw himself on the blonde Texan who’d been antagonising him after his punch had gone astray and caught Adam.

He had just opened his mouth to say something when a loud burst of noise made both men’s heads fly in the direction of the bunk house door, watching silently as Evans and his friends came stumbling in, still laughing and carrying on like a bunch of drunken fools. Adam gave Dean a short smile, reaching through the railing to clap him on the shoulder before he returned to his own bunk. Feeling the weight of a stare on him, Dean flicked his eyes up to meet those of Evans, who sneered at him and turned his attention back to his friends.

Dean didn’t know whether to be grateful when the light was extinguished later or curse and beg for it to be turned back on, if only to prolong the thought of morning coming.

*****

The men were up at dawn, and it had been yet another night of little sleep for Dean. He dressed in his borrowed khaki uniform, feeling more out of place than ever before, like an imposter who didn’t belong. After a barely-eaten breakfast and having placed the belongings that he couldn’t take with him out in the jungle in a cupboard cheerfully donated by Colonel Stott, he slung his pack over his shoulder and followed Adam and the men to the gates of the camp, where Aidan and McTavish were already waiting. The day was already beginning to heat up, and Dean could tell that it would be another humid one.

Adam moved to stand beside Aidan, talking to him in a low voice. Aidan gave only short, gruff answers in reply, glancing at Dean, who fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt, trying to hide the fact that his fingers were shaking. They were loaded into two of the vehicles like the one that Dean had been brought to the camp with Evans in. The soldiers sat low in the bed of the trucks, their helmets on and their guns loaded and ready in case of trouble. Following Adam into the jeep-like vehicle, he sat down gracelessly into the only spot that was still vacant. He still held the helmet he’d been given in his hand, and the soldier next to him ripped it out of his grip and shoved it on his head roughly.

“Try not to get yourself killed on the first day,” Aidan muttered under his breath, and with a start and a swift wide-eyed look to his side, Dean realised that he had sat next to the Irishman. He swallowed, nodding and sliding down against the side further. Adam gave him a smile, which was really nothing more than a quick upwards quirk of his lips.

The further away from the camp they travelled the worse Dean felt. He’d been terrified the previous night in his bunk, unable to sleep, but seeing the soldiers all silent and geared up like deadly weapons of war made the whole thing a lot more real. They soon reached the larger military base where Dean had first met Evans. The buildings were more solid than those of Stott’s camp, and there were a few helicopter pads, too. With a start, Dean realised that that was where they were headed, and shortly they were being shunted into two army helicopters. Again, he followed Adam, who seemed to not want to let Aidan out of his sight now that he had his friend back again. Evans and his moustached friend also ended up in the same helicopter, and the tall private delighted in continuously throwing both Aidan and Dean filthy looks for the duration of the helicopter ride. Leaning over to Adam as they took off, Dean asked, “But, won’t helicopters make us a target for the… the enemy?”

“They’re only taking us a third of the way,” Adam said over the noise of the chopper’s rotating blades. “We’re hiking the rest. That’s when the danger starts.”

“Great,” muttered Dean, not totally placated. He stared out at the blurred landscape below, rubbing a hand over his face in a show of uneasiness. He grimaced as he felt rough stubble crusting the lower half of his face, and resolved to shave again the first chance he got.

It felt like the helicopter was starting to descend all too soon for Dean, and he swallowed his panic in a loud and heavy gulp that was almost non-existent in the buzzing helicopter. Just before they touched the ground, Adam leaned over to yell in Dean’s ear, “Stick with me and Aidan; we’ll look after you.”

Dean seriously doubted that the tall and brooding Irishman would be leaping to his defense any time soon, especially looking at the stony expression set on his face that warned against provocation. Hell, the man looked like he would bite _anyone’s_ head off – both metaphorically and literally – regardless of who they were if they got too close to him. The only person who seemed safe from Turner’s wrath was the nervous young man beside him, and it was obvious that Adam had come to rely on the other soldier for reassurance and comfort.

The choppers touched down in a large field-like clearing. The jungle lined three sides of it, and Dean had a sudden image of the Viet Cong lying in wait for them, picking them off as they exited the chopper one by one. Luckily, nothing like that happened, and Dean managed to jump safely out after Adam, who kept close to the broad back of Turner. With the sun beating down heavily on them, the men ran for cover, pausing for breath once they were in the safety of the leafy embrace of the forest. Much to Dean’s disgust, the humidity only seemed to increase, despite the fact that they were covered by shade, with dappled sunlight stretching its fingers through the green boughs encircling them.

The helicopters left with a thunderous roar, the noise of the rotating blades staining the sky even after they’d long gone. A whine shot past Dean’s ear, and he flinched, slapping his neck and pulling his hand away to see that nestled on his fingertips were the squashed remains of a mosquito. Adam followed his gaze.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I forgot to warn you about the mosquitoes.” His lips gave a wry twitch with grim humour.

“And snakes. And leeches. And mud. And rain. And gooks. And everything else in the fuckin’ jungle,” muttered a nearby soldier, having heard their conversation. It was the curly haired man who’d had leafy branches threaded through his helmet in the photo-shoot. Dean blanched.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Evans broke in. “We’ll have you returned safely back to your comfortable mundane life back in the city safe and sound after a coupla weeks. There’s no guarantee that any of _us_ will survive, but we can’t let our paparazzo keel over on us, can we now? That wouldn’t be hospitable at all.” His words dripped with heavy sarcasm, and Dean flushed, wiping his hand on his pants and staring at the ground.

Turner had managed to move silently and surreptitiously to stand next to Adam. He was, in that moment, as Adam had said, his shadow. “And here you were worrying about _me_ givin’ the guy shit; you’re not exactly the fuckin’ welcomin’ committee, y’know. Seems like it’s _you_ he should be watchin’ out for.” Despite his casual tone, there were inferences in the soldier’s voice that Dean didn’t want to think about. He wasn’t sure why Aidan was taking his side; maybe because he’d become friends with Adam, or perhaps even to simply spite the other dark-haired soldier.

Evans’ eyes grew icy and dangerous. “Adam,” he said, making no effort to disguise his condescending tone, “please keep your dog on its leash.”

Turner’s lip curled in a snarl as his gaze darkened and his eyes flashed with anger, and Adam placed a restraining hand on his forearm. “Luke,” he said softly, his voice tense and strained. “Now is not the time for petty arguments or fights. Not _here_.” There were slight spots of colour sitting high on his cheek bones.

Evans didn’t get the chance to reply, because Sergeant McTavish, who’d been conversing with another soldier, gave the order to move out. They walked single file, the soldiers with their guns out and poised, ready to let loose a round of bullets at the slightest hint of danger (though Adam’s hands shook slightly as he held the barrel of his gun), and Dean felt strangely naked with no weapon to defend himself. He was a peaceful guy, he’d be the first to admit it, but some acquaintances of his back in L.A. had been telling him that supposedly, the Viet Cong were deadly in their home turf. With quick and silent feet, the use of snipers, and the advantage of knowledge about the area, they could be anywhere, hiding in the undergrowth and just waiting for the right moment to kill them. He would feel better if he had a gun of some sort in his hands, and knew that he wouldn’t be totally useless in a confrontation if it came to that (he prayed with all his might to whatever deity was listening at that chosen time that it didn’t); his dad used to take him out shooting as a teenager, and Dean was confident in his aim and reflexes. Unfortunately, he was just the simple photojournalist, and although he knew he could wheedle and beg all he’d like, McTavish still probably wouldn’t give him a gun unless the absolute need for it arose.

He’d somehow ended up sandwiched behind Adam and in front of Turner, and he could practically feel the man’s dark eyes boring holes into his back, his body still tense with anger as a result of Evans’ comment. Dean’s eyes peeled the ground in front of him, keeping a watchful eye out for snakes and mud, like the other soldier had mentioned, and anything else like vines or roots that he might trip on or – God forbid – a booby trap left by the Viet Cong, occasionally flicking his eyes up to rest on Adam in front of him. The men were silent, and trying to keep their noise to a minimum as they picked their way through the jungle. Dean was sweating heavily as a result of the humidity, and due to his aversion to activities like hiking and other sports in general, his level of fitness was nowhere near that of the surrounding soldiers. Even Adam, who looked like he would snap in half if a gust of wind puffed at him, still had his breath and was marching along just fine, keeping up with the relatively brisk pace.

McTavish spurred the men on for hours throughout the afternoon. It was tough work; Dean was red-faced, hot and sweaty, and his legs protested viciously with every step that he took. He felt like the weight of his pack and equipment would cause him to collapse from sheer exhaustion, and he struggled to keep up towards the end of the gruelling hike. By the time they reached a clearing and what was obviously the camp, all Dean wanted to do was submerge himself in a cold shower. Some of the men from the squad that was currently residing in the basic campsite straightened and called out greetings as the men followed McTavish out from under the trees. While the sergeant was briefed by the other squad’s commander about the duration of their own stay and what to perhaps expect, the lower-ranking soldiers mingled, catching up and sharing news with some of their friends and comrades. Dean stood there awkwardly, feeling out of place again, and he kept close to Adam, who was listening intently to something that Aidan was muttering to him. The soldier’s face was pale and drawn, and Dean remembered what he’d said about being nervous before being sent out into the war zones. Aidan reached out to place a comforting hand on Adam’s shoulder, the smaller man leaning in to the other’s touch. And when the other squad traipsed off back the way they’d just come to return to the small base camp an hour or so later, Adam looked like he wished he was going with them.

As the men from McTavish’s squad began to unpack and settle themselves into their ‘home’ for the next two weeks, Dean dropped his pack at his feet, bending over with a sigh of relief as the bulky weight was removed from his back. Holding himself up with his hands on his knees, he inhaled and exhaled sharply, before standing up and surveying the camp, running a hand through his hair as he did so.

The camp had been set into the edge of the forest, and Dean could see the trampled remnants of plants and trees that had been removed to make way for the seemingly haphazardly-placed tents and cylindrical domes of corrugated iron. The tents, covered in khaki and green canvas tarps, had been erected on wooden stilts; most likely to allow for the tropical rains that Dean knew often fell in this area and the mud and slush that they would bring. Some of the other tents, however, had a wooden base with the corrugated iron laid out over top, and were then covered by what looked like sandbags. Dean could see equipment piled up in these tents – bags, extra lengths of canvas, rounds of bullets and ammunition, food, all those vital things. Lines of rope and string had been tied between the tents and trees, which both acted as a clothesline and allowed the canvas to be draped over the tents as a roof.  Small lean-tos had also been set up, and the one just to the left of Dean rested over a hole – most likely a place for soldiers to sit in and escape the sun, or perhaps also another method of storage or cover during a fight or assault.

The corrugated domes, on the other hand were larger structures. Obviously bunkers of some form, they sat half in the ground, and most had the mouth of the tunnel sheltered by one of the lean-to–like set-ups. Dean swallowed nervously upon seeing those. As someone who loved to be breathing in fresh air and photographing the outdoors, he felt a little claustrophobic at the possibility of having to spend a considerable amount of time down in one.

Dean startled as a soldier bumped into him, jerking away with a muttered “Sorry.” He only stared after the retreating back, fumbling for his camera when he realised he should be documenting the scene in front of him by way of frozen photographs.

“Hey.”

He startled as Adam came up beside him, peering over his shoulder and watching curiously as he clicked the button on his camera, capturing the image of one of the men who had begun organising the tent he had clearly claimed.

Passing a hand over his face and pausing to rub and his stubble-covered chin, Dean said quietly, “It’s just… it’s so much more real now, but at the same time, it doesn’t feel real. It’s like… It’s like it’s actually happening – I’m actually _here_ – but it feels like this is a dream. D’you get what I mean?”

Adam gave a small breathy exhale that passed for a chuckle. “Yeah. Trust me though,” Dean gasped and grabbed at the fleshy part of skin above his elbow that Adam had pinched, “you’re here. It’s not a dream.”

Evans’ moustached friend, who was passing and overheard their conversation, said (rather cheerfully, Dean thought) “Just you wait ‘till we get some action, O’Gorman. You’re gonna be wishing that it _is_ a dream.” A few other soldiers laughed good-naturedly, more to humour the man rather than seeing the funny side of things.

“You think that’s funny?” Turner’s voice cut sharply through their laughter as he appeared from behind a lean-to, striding towards them with a heavy glare weighted on his face, his thick brows framing his dark and furious eyes. The men immeadiately sobered, involuntarily moving closer together as if safety in numbers could protect them from the Irishman. “You think this is some sort of game?” Turner continued. “We’ll see who’s laughin’ when yer piss yerselves running away from bullets and grenades and screaming for yer mam and da.”

Evans causally waltzed out from behind a bunker (with rather convenient timing, Dean thought), ready to intervene on behalf of his friends and looking darkly eager to start an argument with the Irishman if necessary.  Turner didn’t allow him the chance, however, sending one last scowl at the soldiers who had congregated before stalking off back to his tent.

“Such heart-warming words from our ever-present ray of Irish sunshine,” Evans mocked under his breath, making a few of the men laugh, but they did so with cautious voices and unsure looks in Turner’s direction, almost like they were expecting him to turn around and condemn them for the action.

Adam was fuming silently beside Dean. “They shouldn’t rile him up like that,” he mumbled, half to himself and half to the photographer. “He shouldn’t _let_ himself be riled up by them. They’re only looking for trouble.” He sighed, his young face creased with age for a few seconds, and then he turned to Dean, although this time, there was a more apologetic look on his features. He scratched at the nape of his neck, something that the New Zealander instantly recognised as a nervous habit. “Um,” the soldier began, choosing his words carefully. “So, here’s the thing. Those tents… they only fit two, and… ”

“You’re sharing with Aidan,” Dean finished for him. Adam nodded sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, I just… I can share with you, if you’d like; I’m sure Aidan’d understand…”

Dean shook his head. “Forget it,” he said. “He’s your friend, of course it’s only logical that you should share with him. I’ll be fine.”

There was anxiousness clearly evident in Adam’s eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully. “Because- ”

“Adam. Seriously. I’ll be fine,” Dean insisted. He flicked his eyes around to make sure no one was listening, dropping his voice as he added, “Just so long as I’m not sharing with Evans.”

A shadow passed over the young soldier’s face, but just as quickly as it was there, it had gone. Dean knew that the other man hadn’t forgiven him completely for his stupid fuck up, but he was just grateful that Adam didn’t appear to be somebody who held a grudge or distanced himself from others when angry or upset with them.

“For what it’s worth,” he began, his tone just as quiet as Dean’s had been, “I think you should apologise, even though he may not forgive you very quickly. Or at all. But if you show some remorse for what you said, then maybe he won’t be so harsh on you. I’m just saying,” he went on, seeing Dean stiffen slightly and hold himself back from rolling his eyes at what appeared to be the beginning of a lecture. “Anything could happen out here. You don’t know the outcome of it, either, and you need to be able to rely on everybody you can.”

A lecture from Adam was the last thing that Dean wanted. He’d stuffed up, he knew it. He’d said the wrong thing, and now he had to deal with the consequences of having a mouth that spoke before his brain could even registered his words and send a message saying _no, don’t say that you retard. Abort mission, ABORT MISSION!_

“Look,” Dean hastily tried to amend. “Do you really think that he’d appreciate me going up to him _now_? He’d probably rip me in two. Why don’t we just wait for things to die a bit, y’know?”

“You can’t hide forever, Dean,” Adam said, shaking his head.

“And I’m not,” he countered. “I’m just suggesting that we let him cool down. Give him space.” Adam raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything, only huffing out a breath in reply. “Hey,” Dean said, trying to change the subject. “Come on. Help me find a tent to dump all my shit.”

Adam only gave him a look, half despaired and half _what am I going to do with you?_ , but he rolled his eyes, unable to fight the small smile that slipped on his face when he held the photojournalist’s gaze. And as he followed the soldier through the maze of tents and bunkers, Dean had a feeling that the conversation regarding Evans wasn’t over.

*****

Adam managed to help him find a tent with an occupant willing to share their space, and that was how Dean found himself sharing a tent with the curly-haired man who’d made the comment about things in the jungle earlier. He learned that the soldier’s name was Mark, and he hadn’t seemed to mind having Dean as a tent-mate. The sun was starting to dip when Dean finally emerged from the now-cramped khaki tent, having set up and organised his possessions and equipment, and a couple of the men had prepared dinner, which consisted of rice, fish, and other Asian-styled food. He kept his camera slung around his neck on a strap, ready to capture any moment of mateship or comradeship, the simple way of soldier life and anything else he though worthy of an exhibition to the public via newspaper.

Curious to the reason behind the Asian-style cuisine, Dean leaned over and murmured to Adam, who had materialised beside him, “What’s with all the rice and fish and stuff?”

Catching his inquisitive look, the young soldier explained “Oh. Previous soldiers had trouble with Viet Cong who’d always manage to track them somehow. That was until someone realised… ” He blushed slightly. “They’d track us via… _bowel_ movements, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” was all Dean could say. He didn’t know what sort of explanation he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. He’d been prepared for a long-winded and tedious monologue about something like nutritional value or whatever. He bit his lip, trying to stop an awkward smile from slipping onto his face. “Well… that’s certainly something.”

Aidan emerged from the growing darkness silently, coming to stand beside Adam. He crossed his arms over his chest, remaining mute throughout the duration of line-up of soldiers to receive their meal. Dean followed Adam back to a relatively dry piece of ground (it had rained the previous day), sitting himself down and leaning back against one of the larger bunkers in the camp as they ate their meal. He pulled a face after swallowing the first mouthful of gluggy rice and over-cooked fish. He felt eyes on him, and glanced up to find Aidan settling on an over-turned metal barrel of some sort in front of Adam. Raising his eyebrows and with an expression on his face that was hard to read, the Irishman said dryly, “Well, I’m sorry that our food isn’t up to your five-star restaurant type that you’re probably used to.”

Adam jerked his head, looking back and forth between the two men beside him, as he witnessed an exchange like the ones he’d only previously heard about from Dean. His mouth had fallen open slightly in surprise, not expecting  
Aidan to make the first move conversation-wise with the blonde photographer, who’d only snorted at his comment, swallowing another mouthful.

“Yes, because I’d _really_ give up a lifestyle like that to come and chill in the jungle with you lot,” he said, peering up at Aidan, who was just studying the face of the New Zealander intently. Dean felt uncomfortable with the soldier’s dark eyes tracing his features, ducking his eyes down at his plate so he wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. “I’m not rich, you know,” he added quietly. “Whatever stereotypes you have of me being this fancy, rich, immaculately groomed guy who’s both arrogant and ignorant… They’re wrong.”

“Why’s that? Sheep not giving you enough wool this year down in New Zealand?” Aidan drawled, leaning back on his seat, his expression unwavering.

Dean flinched. “I don’t live in New Zealand,” he said, the words coming out more acidic than he’d intended. “Not anymore. I moved to Los Angeles a few years ago.”

“Why?” Although Dean had missed it, Adam had seen the way Aidan’s face had flickered slightly with sympathy and curiosity at Dean’s reaction, causing him to continue with his interrogation in an attempt to find out why the photographer had reacted the way he did.

“Why won’t you let me take you photo?” Dean countered, and Aidan’s gaze both sharpened and hardened.

“None o’ your business,” he scowled, scuffing at the dirt with the toe of his boot. His gaze had dropped from Dean’s face, and with the weight of his stare gone, Dean kept his face largely neutral as he stared at the Irish soldier, though his eyes flashed with painful memories.

“Well stay out of mine,” he snapped, a heavy sense of finality in his tone that clearly stated that the topic of conversation was no longer open for discussion.

There was silence for a few seconds before Adam broke it with a snort. Both men turned to look at him, watching the young soldier cover his mouth in attempt to stop laughing. Aidan didn’t say anything, but Dean could see the question in his eyes as he silently asked what was so funny.

“You two,” Adam managed. “My God, it was like a testosterone-fuelled competition to see who could out-sass the other using sarcasm and scowls.”

Dean and Aidan glanced at each other. Dean let a tiny smile break out on his face, directed at the dark-haired man, a silent apology for his words hidden behind the small stretch of his lips. Aidan stared back uncertainly, something wavering in his eyes before they frosted over again, muttering a “’s not funny, Adam,” as he turned away.

There was a large explosion in the distance, one that resonated around the camp for seconds afterwards, and sent all the soldiers on high alert, their postures stiffening, their eyes flickering and their ears straining as they tried to search for any sign of danger. The explosion was followed by gunfire – prolonged and loud, with only small breaks in between. Dean had heard it throughout the afternoon, flinching whenever the sounds of it had reached his ears, but it had been a way off, Sergeant McTavish had said, reassuring Dean that everything tended to echo out here in the forests when they’d stopped for a brief respite from the gruelling march.

Another explosion sounded out, and when his head flew in the direction it had come from, Dean could see black smoke outlining a giant fireball that lit up the dying sky. Cutlery clattered to the dirt, forgotten as McTavish called orders for the men to gather up arms and prepare themselves in case an unlikely fight came their way. Dean was bundled down into a small hole draped in canvas and sheltered by a lean-to - still clutching his camera but now wearing his helmet - that had been placed in front of a bunker. He stared up at Adam and Turner who sat on a barrel (much like the one Turner had been sitting on while eating) in front of him. Turner wore a mask of unyielding indifference, and Dean could only think that nothing fazed him out here; he seemingly had no fear of the war zone. He was aware of a few other soldiers in front of him too – the cocky soldier who’d mooned him was there also – but he could only stare at the two men in front of him.

Adam was bent over and had his head in his hands, clutching at his helmet desperately and trembling with each new smaller blast or round of gunfire. The Irishman next to him had one arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders, pulling him in close as he leaned over at intervals to whisper in his ear comfortingly. Adam leaned into the soldier beside him, curling in on himself with every faint scream of a man that managed to break through and pierce the sounds of battle. Aidan had his left hand loosely holding the barrel of his gun as it sat upright on the ground, but at a particularly loud scream of pain, his fingers tightened, his knuckles whitening as Adam let out another choked sob at the sound of someone else’s agony. And that’s when Dean knew that the only thing that could hurt the Irishman out here in the jungle was the pain and terror of his young friend. Dean pressed his eyes closed tight, praying that whoever it was had had a quick and painless death, though from the sounds of it, it had been anything but. He had started to tremble with horror and nerves, desperately sending out mental prayers please to whichever deity or god happened to be listening that the fight wouldn’t reach them tonight. He couldn’t take it if it did. He wasn’t ready, he wasn’t prepared, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to see _others_ die…

Aidan tightened his grip on Adam as another shudder racked the young soldier’s body from head to toe.

Dean raised his camera to his face and pressed the button.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That post that I keep on promising is still in the process of being made, so in the mean time, go [here](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/51383343561/source-dean-ogorman-adam-was-bent-over-and#notes) to find the picture that the final scene of this chapter is based on and a little note about it. Keep an eye out for a tumblr post sometime during the week containing pictures and notes about the campsite and what I used for inspiration. If you miss it, don't worry, I'll link it at the beginning of the next chapter.


	5. 4 - Reaching For Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, [here](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/51626646099/photos-that-inspired-the-description-of-the#notes) is the post with pictures regarding the campsite. I've also started reblogging/posting pictures of the Vietnam War, and these can be found in my [Vietnam](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/tagged/vietnam) tag.
> 
> Regarding the updates from now on, I'm only going to be updating chapters once I have half of the next chapter written. This will just make things easier for me, and I won't feel any pressure to just sit down and pump out 7k in one go (not that I do that anyway). Potentially, this means long waits for you guys, like this one. But it helps with the flow of my writing, so. *shrugs*
> 
> You guys who have commented are all amazing by the way, and I thank each and every one of you for your kind words.

Though the fight went on well into the night, Dean’s prayers were answered and it did not come near their camp. Sometime after midnight, half of the soldiers and Dean were sent to their tents to rest, while the others were kept awake on a watch of some kind, with the plan to wake the other half of the men a few hours later to relieve them. Dean climbed stiffly out of the dirt bunker he’d been shoved down into, groaning softly as he stretched his limbs and heard his joints crack. A glance at Adam showed the young soldier’s face to be pale and drawn; his hands were shaking and his bottom lip was raw and bloody from where he’d bitten it continuously to keep his whimpers to a minimum. He was sent with off to his tent with the rest of the soldiers, and though Dean could see that Sergeant McTavish wanted Aidan with the men who seemed to be the more capable and adept soldiers in the squad in case they were attacked in the darkness, Aidan refused to leave the trembling soldier beside him, and McTavish reluctantly sent him off with Adam.

The soldier who had kindly shared his tent with Dean, Mark, was one of the men that had been picked to remain on watch for the first half of the night. Alone, and terribly anxious, Dean lay in the tent quietly, unable to sleep due to the explosions and gunfire that continued raging. He himself was beginning to shake with fear at the possibility of a surprise attack on their camp. He finally fell into a fitful sleep a few hours before dawn, just after the watch change and Mark had returned to the tent. When he woke, it was still early morning, but most of the camp remained asleep, save for the soldiers currently on watch. Rising silently and feeling like he hadn’t slept at all, Dean swapped his shirt from the previous day for a clean one, absent-mindedly scratching at his face as he ducked into the pale sunshine that was trying to shine through building grey clouds that hung heavily on the horizon.

He spotted Aidan sitting in the dirt and lounging back against a bunker a few feet away, his head bowed and his eyes riveted on his idle hands in his lap. His gun lay beside him and he was obviously deep in thought. Cautiously, Dean made his way over to the Irishman, unsure whether or not he was doing the right thing by approaching the soldier; but then, he decided, he’d previously initiated conversations with him, why couldn’t Dean do the same?

“Hey,” he said softly, lowering himself beside the dark-haired enigma of a man, still cautiously keeping a few feet of dirt between them. Aidan’s eyes flicked to the photographer beside him, surprise slipping onto his face before he regained control of his expression, returning it to its normal neutral scowl. He didn’t say anything, and Dean didn’t know if it was a good sign or not. He decided to press on, regardless. “I’m, um… I’m sorry about last night. That conversation over dinner… I just…”

The soldier frowned. “You don’ need to apologise,” he said brusquely. “Got nothin’ to be sorry for.”

“But I –” Dean began, but a sharp look from Turner that clearly said he didn’t want sympathy in the form of apologetic words cut him off. He sighed. “How’s… how’s Adam?”

“Sleepin’,” came the short reply. Aidan shifted his position slightly, pulling one leg up and resting his elbow on his knee. There was silence, and Dean noticed a few of the other men across the camp do slight double-takes when they saw the photojournalist and the Irishman sitting together. Aidan sighed. “What are you doin’?”

It was Dean’s turn to frown. “Uh… sitting?” he hazarded a guess.

“No, I _mean_ ,” Turner spoke over the top of him sharply, “what are you doin’ talkin’ to me? Thought the others woulda said somet’ing to you about mixin’ wit’ the resident psycho.” There was bitterness in his voice, thickening his words.

Dean was speechless for a second. “Do you want me to leave you alone?” he asked. “Is that it? You can’t tell me to bugger off yourself so you use them as an excuse?” He snorted. “What does it matter, anyway. You’re Adam’s friend, and Adam’s _my_ friend too. Besides, you’ve started conversations with me and I can’t do the same?” He rolled his eyes. “Adam told me what they say about you – fuck, _they’ve_ told me what they think of you – and yet here I am willingly because I believe that nobody does anything without reason.” He studied the Irishman’s face intently, noticing how his stubble had lengthened in the few short days since he’d first seen him. The other man refused to meet his eyes, keeping his head turned away. Dean let out a huff of breath, beginning to rise to his feet. “Fine then,” he muttered. When he was halfway up, a hand shot out to grab him, fingers wrapping around his wrist, and Dean prayed that they couldn’t detect the way his pulse had quickened as his head flew around to stare into the dark and deep eyes of Aidan.

Holding the blonde photographer’s gaze intensely, Aidan inhaled harshly, his jaw tightening and eyelids fluttering as he trained his eyes down at the ground again, but not before Dean had seen a flash of something softer, yet unrecognisable, in the soldier’s eyes. “Don’t,” he said softly, seemingly shrinking back in on himself. “Stay.” When Dean made no move to either leave or sit back down again, Aidan raised his eyes and blinked up at him, swallowing hard. “Please.”

It was added in a whisper, and it was all that it took for Dean to slowly sink down beside the Irishman, who realised that he was still holding onto his wrist and released it in a hurry. It could have been the bright morning sun reflecting in his eyes, but the New Zealander could have sworn he saw the beginning of a blush rise on Aidan’s cheekbones. It was the first emotion he’d seen the soldier show other than anger and sadness, and he stared, noticing how it softened his already-handsome features, and made him appear more friendly and approachable.

Aidan sighed, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry,” he began apologetically, his voice slightly gruffer and deeper than usual, and Dean could almost sense the internal struggle within the soldier as he tried to  regain control over his emotions, while confusion radiated out from his body in intense waves. “I jus’… It’s the first time someone besides Adam has willingly talked to me. I wasn’t sure…” He exhaled loudly, stretching his legs out again and staring straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with Dean.

“What about that time in the kitchen or the bunkhouse? I talked to you then.”

“That’s not the same,” Aidan defended. “ _I_ talked to you first. You _had_ to reply.”

“I didn’t _have_ to do anything,” Dean corrected, looking out over the camp and watching as a slightly dishevelled Evans yawned his way out of his tent. He hurriedly looked away in case they made eye contact.

Aidan turned to look at the man next to him, remaining silent. Once again, Dean felt the weight of his intense gaze boring into his body and flushed gently, unused to having someone stare at him so.

“Why do you distance yourself from the others?” he suddenly asked.

Shrugging, Aidan replied with, “Why do they distance themselves from me?”

“That’s different. They’re unsure of you,” Dean said.

There was silence, and then Aidan finally said hesitantly, “I don’ like trustin’ others. They turn around an’ stab you in the back an’ leave you with nothin’.”

Dean refrained from reminding the Irishman of the way he always seemed to grow six inches taller when around the other men and seemed to purposely try to pick fights with them.

There was a faint boom in the distance, causing both men to startle gently and look up, Dean more so than Aidan. It had come from the jungle on the other side of the large field they were camped in, and tendrils of black and grey smoke were beginning to poke out from above the distant-tree tops.

“What was that?” Dean asked nervously, unconsciously shifting towards the soldier for reassurance.

Turner glanced back at Dean. “It’s too far away to be a bother to us. Now for fuck’s sake, would you stop flinchin’ like a nervous puppy every time somet’in happens?”

“How was I supposed to know that?” the photojournalist shot back, his returning anxiousness setting him on edge and making him defensive. “Besides, you didn’t say that to Adam every time something happened last night,” he added darkly under his breath, and Dean quailed under the Irishman’s furious gaze when he turned it on him.

“That was different,” Turner said coldly. “Don’t talk abou’ t’ings you don’ understan’.” He shifted, moving to stand up. “But like the prick of a man called Evans said last night, we’ll probably die before you do.” With one last withering look that sent Dean subtly moving backwards, the hot corrugated metal of the bunker digging into his back and burning his skin through his shirt, Turner swivelled sharply on his heel and marched stiffly away, his shoulders hunched and muscles tense.

Dean sighed and lolled his head forward, staring down at the dirt besides him and feeling like just when he’d taken a step forward with the Irishman, they’d managed to take three steps backward as a result of his inability to think before he spoke.

*****

Turner staunchly avoided Dean for the rest of the morning, which left Adam (after he’d surfaced from his tent) slightly confused and feeling like he’d missed the latest memo on the Aidan/Dean front. Dean could see him just itching to casually sidle up to him and beg for details, and briefly wondered when Adam had turned into a gossip-deprived teenage girl. He wasn’t given the chance however, (something for which Dean was grateful), what with McTavish calling a meeting among the soldiers where he announced that he’d be accompanying a group of men in the direction of a small village that was about a two hour hike away from the camp; another nearby unit had contacted McTavish over the camp’s main radio and asked them to investigate the shots and explosions they’d heard, unable to do it themselves as they had lost quite a few men, leaving them depleted of man-power, and were only being relieved the following day. Quickly outlining the basic gist of the plan, the sergeant had decided to take with him over half of the men – Evans and Turner included – and leave the rest behind to guard the camp. Adam was one of the men who would stay behind, and though Dean could see he was relieved at the prospect of not having to face a potential fight, he was also more than slightly worried about the fact that he didn’t have his friend to protect and reassure him.

“O’Gorman,” Sergeant McTavish thundered, and Dean jerked his head up, his eyes widening at having been addressed.

“Y-yes sir,” he stuttered, as more than a few looks were thrown his way. Not all were pleasant, and he was sure that he heard a soldier quietly scoff.

“You’ll be coming with us,” McTavish instructed, and the photographer’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

“M-m-me?” he said, stumbling over his words.

Giving him a long look, the sergeant replied drily with, “Yes, you. And bring that damned camera of yours, too. You may as well put it to good use. But you’ll do as I say, and I expect the same amount of obedience from you as I do from the rest of the men out here that are under my command.” Dean didn’t miss the way that the older soldier’s eyes flicked briefly towards Turner, who’d crossed his arms and was glaring intently down at the dirt underneath his boots, at the mention of obedience.

“Yes sir,” Dean repeated, his voice steady but nervous.

With a few further short words, Sergeant McTavish dismissed the soldiers to allow them to start preparing for the journey. Adam followed a brooding Turner, saying under his breath, “Can’t you ask him if you can stay?” a little desperately. When Turner looked back to mutter his reply, his haunted eyes met those of Dean’s, and the Irishman delivered his next muttered words to Adam while staring at the blonde New Zealander. It was Dean who looked away first, hurrying off to his own tent to gather the necessary equipment he’d need for the trek. His tent-mate Mark was one of the soldiers who’d be remaining at the camp to hold the fort, and he cheerfully helped Dean prepare, stuffing his pack with the essential items like food and water, as well as making sure to include the man’s photography equipment.

Within twenty minutes, the men were all gathered in the centre of the camp, a distinct separation between the group of soldiers that had been chosen to investigate the village and the others that would be staying at camp. Adam was standing next to Turner, but the second he saw Dean he sidled up to him, a hint of worry staining his muddy irises. He swallowed, his jaw trembling before he murmured to Dean, “Look, I… I don’t know what went on between you and Aidan this morning – because something obviously did, I’m not blind or stupid – but… He’s probably your best chance of survival out there, so just, just stick with him and you’ll be fine.” He gave the photographer a strained smile.

Dean raised his eyebrow, a quirk to his lips. “And what did he say about being the equivalent of a babysitter?”

Sighing softly, the young soldier glanced at Dean. “He’ll do it,” he said. Feeling eyes on him, the New Zealander flicked his haze upwards to find Turner staring at him, his gaze cool and calculated. However, when the Irishman met Dean’s blue eyes, he immeadiately flinched and jerked his head away, almost like he was embarrassed to be caught staring. “He may be doing it for me, but he’ll do it,” Adam continued.

Dean nodded, clapping Adam on the shoulder as Sergeant McTavish gave the order to move out. “Hey,” he said, trying to keep his tone reassuring, “don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

Adam gave what looked like a watery smile. “Just, be careful out there,” he said quietly. “I don’t want to lose either of you.”

Dean had only known the soldier for a few days, but he was touched by how much the other man seemed to value their friendship. “Will do,” he promised as he swivelled to face the gathered soldiers who were already beginning to leave. He jogged after them, working his way to the outskirts of the middle of the group and planting himself firmly in a position next to Turner, who didn’t even spare him a glance or word of acknowledgement. As the jungle swallowed them up, Dean turned a final time and raised his hand in farewell to Adam, who continued to stand and stare after them.

The terrain they hiked over was difficult at times, what with tree roots stretching out as if to trip them purposely and clumps of ferns blocking their path. Their journey wasn’t always as silent as Dean would have liked, and a few times he found himself swivelling his head around nervously, scanning the surrounding forest for any sign of danger. Evans snorted softly to himself when he saw what the photographer was doing, but thankfully, he didn’t make any comments. It was after perhaps twenty minutes of walking that Dean finally worked up the courage to talk to Turner, his words broken by his out-of-breath panting and sweat dripping consistently down his forehead.

“Look… I’m sorry if what… what I said earlier… offended you, but… I… when I’m nervous or anxious… I tend to get snappy… and…”

Having fallen towards the back of the group, Turner yanked Dean to a stop, reaching out and grabbing the front of his shirt to keep him in place. His closed fist tightened its hold on the fabric, and he loomed over Dean, who shrank back slightly, so that only inches separated them from being forehead to forehead. Dean drew in a sharp breath of air, nervously returning the Irishman’s unwavering gaze. Turner’s brows were heavily furrowed in a glare, and his dark eyes glittered with anger and danger. Up close, Dean could see that his eyes, instead of being a dirty brown colour, were really quite a lovely shade of brown which tapered to a light amber colour around his irises. A muscle twitched in his face as he clenched his jaw, breathing in steadily before lowering his voice and snarling through clenched teeth, “I don’ care if you say things abou’ me. I don’ care if you judge me or despise me,” his voiced had barely and imperceptibly faltered over the word ‘despise’, hardening again as he continued, “but you don’ get to bring Adam – _of all people_ – into this. If you _ever_ say somet’ing like that again, then I will make sure that if you go near him, _it will be the last fookin’ t’ing that you ever do_.”

Dean was frozen, unable to comprehend the sudden change that had come over Turner. He gulped, the sound loud and unpleasant, and his eyelids fluttered as he dropped his gaze, unable to meet the soldier’s unforgiving stare.

“Turner! Back off _right now_ ,” McTavish growled threateningly, and Dean realised that the others had stopped and were now staring back anxiously at them. Flicking his eyes back to Turner’s, Dean exhaled slowly and managed to make himself stare back defiantly, ignoring the way every muscle in his body trembled visibly and how his brain screamed at him to _run away from the fucking psycho who looked like he’d happily strangle you if given the chance!_

Turner’s jaw twitched again, his murderous stare steadfastly remaining on his face as he released his hold on Dean’s shirt and shoved him violently away, sending him stumbling to the ground. With a final disparaging glare in the photographer’s general direction, the Irishman strode forward, past Dean’s sprawled body, his gait now heavy with fury and unreleased tension. Exhaling shakily, Dean was helped to his feet by a soldier who darted forward and brushed him off. He offered the shorter blonde man a wry smile when Dean mumbled a “Thanks,” at him, and shrugged his shoulders, replying with “No problem.”

The soldier made no further comment when Dean chose to walk alongside of him, silenced into submission by Turner’s blistering outburst (that some soldiers secretly believed Dean deserved - poke a stick at an angry, venomous snake and it will hiss and bite, eventually killing you with its poison; in their minds, the ticking time bomb that was Turner was a similar creature.). What with the seemingly unchanging landscape and surroundings, trying to keep his footing and also keep to the relatively tiring pace that the group of soldiers kept, Dean lost track of the time that had elapsed, and was stunned when what felt like a short time later, they stumbled upon a clearing that contained enough patchy cover for the men to crouch behind that overlooked a small village and its surrounding of sparse and small plantations of crops.

What remained of it, anyway.

The crops had been crushed underfoot and pulled out, either dead or in the process of dying. None of the wooden huts that made up the village were completely untouched, with most in ruins or totally in shambles on the forest floor. From the smoky haze that stretched lazily around the clearing, Dean guessed that there must have been a fire lit previously, and indeed he could smell the dusty scent of smoke and see some charred remains of what he took to be more huts. There had clearly been some sort of battle or fight that had been staged there, and an eerie silence surrounded the group of men.

Sergeant McTavish sent Evans and two other men to scout the area quickly, checking to see if there was any sign of danger, including an ambush. Dean was thankful that he remained with the rest of the soldiers where it was relatively safe, and at a pointed look from McTavish, started quietly clicking some photographs of the scene before him, taking care to catch the scouting soldiers in his shots. He could feel eyes on his back, and out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Turner watching him. Dean gritted his teeth and didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to accidentally provoke another attack like the earlier one, but he still wanted to know just _why the hell_ the Irish soldier felt the need to stare and watch him so much. It unnerved him, especially because of the fact that the soldier was so unpredictable, and Dean didn’t know half the time whether Turner would simply start a conversation with him or just barely be able to hold himself back from ripping Dean apart – physically and verbally. The incident earlier had been the latter, and the New Zealander knew that his words had set the other man off, but he’d only been trying to apologise and make amends for what had happened between them. Surely that had to count for something, right?

_And yet…_ a tiny voice in Dean’s head chimed in. And yet Turner had been willing to watch over Dean on this expedition and make sure he returned safely – Adam had said so. The photographer couldn’t work out the reason behind it, especially because Turner seemed to absolutely loathe his guts at the present time, but perhaps there was no reasonable explanation. Or maybe Turner was just so loyal and trusting of his only friend that he was willing to do anything for him. Dean couldn’t understand it, but he was grateful that someone as terrifyingly intimidating as Turner would have his back (at least, he still _hoped_ so) if the worst came to worst and there was a skirmish.

A sudden hand on his shoulder jolted him back into the reality of the jungle, though Dean didn’t really understand how it could be forgotten. He turned, opening his mouth and about to ask what was going on, but he was silenced by a sharp glare from McTavish, the older commander holding a finger to his lips in the universal sign for _ssshh, quiet_ , although Dean interpreted it to mean _don’t you dare open your fucking mouth, O’Gorman, or it could be the last thing you ever do_.

Now that he’d shut his mouth, he could see the other soldiers were tense and on high alert. Turner was a stone, frozen in place with the exception of his darting dark eyes, and Dean could see how rigid and coiled his body was in anticipation of possible danger. His own heart was beating loudly in his ears, and the blonde photographer startled silently at every noise, regardless of whether it was a natural jungle sound or a synthetic reverberation brought about by the soldiers or what could possibly be the enemy. There was a small flash of colour and a scurrying of movement in his left field of vision, and Dean turned his head to follow it with his eyes, pulling his breath into his lungs sharply when it was revealed to be a small Vietnamese child, dirty and wearing clothes that had been torn to rags – most likely a survivor of whatever had befallen the tiny village.

 One of the other soldiers now had his gun trained on the little child, his finger poised on the trigger. Dean’s eyes widened horrifically.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” he hissed quietly. “That’s a just _child_ – you can’t seriously- ”

Turner clenched his jaw and twisted away from the scene in front of him, his fists curled tightly in his lap while he stared defiantly at the ground as McTavish, with a hint of regret and desperation edged with hardness in his eyes, lunged forward, throwing his hand over Dean’s mouth lest he should make any more noise.

“That is not _just a child_ , Mr O’Gorman,” he began, his tone condescending and his voice full of razors. “That _child_ could be one of the enemy – that _child_ could be the end of us all. You don’t _know_ what these people are capable of. You don’t _know_ what has happened to us that we have been reduced to the sort of men who have to do unthinkable things to survive, to ensure the war is always in our favour, so I suggest you _don’t say another word when I remove my hand from your mouth._ Is. That. _Clear?_ ” The last part had been uttered in a venomous whisper, and Dean had felt an electric shock of horror sweep through his body when he realised that the soldiers would kill the innocent (in Dean’s eyes) Vietnamese child if necessary – all in the name of their own survival. The ageing sergeant removed his hand from Dean’s mouth with a withering glare to rival Turner’s, and Dean’s mouth opened and closed like a fish as he sat there, unmoving due to his revelation, and tried to process the new piece of knowledge. Looking to the Irish soldier who had promised to look out for him and hoping to see a sign of _something, anything_ , the photojournalist was astonished to find that the soldier’s body was completely stiff, but trembling at the same time. From fear or anger or some other emotion, Dean didn’t know, but he watched the dark-haired enigma take a shuddering breath, his body facing away from the village. He was shocked by yet _another_ different transformation that had overcome the normally indifferent Turner, but in his eyes, it only added another layer to the mysterious history of the Irishman.

A small rustling sound heralded the arrival of Evans and the other men that had accompanied him, their faces solemn and pale white – unbelieving, almost.

“What did you find?” Sergeant McTavish demanded hurriedly and quietly as they re-joined the group of waiting soldiers.

It was Evans who spoke, his voice husky with shock. “Bodies,” he said hollowly, sinking down onto the forest floor. “An American platoon of about twenty. They were massacred – it must have been an ambush. They’ve been dragged into one of the remaining huts on the far side of the village; it’s hidden from view. But there’s gooks occupying another hut that’s still standing. Mostly women and children, but a few young men too. I don’t think they saw us.”

Dean felt sick, and began gulping deep breaths of air in an attempt to stop himself from vomiting at the information. He knew that he was out here in Vietnam in the middle of a war, but he hadn’t thought that he’d be exposed to this much of the war – and so _soon_ – and hearing Evans inform the rest of them about the bodies of the soldiers was a sharp and painful reminder of really went on out here. _They were people’s children, for fuck’s sake._ Someone’s lover. Another’s brother. Men with nothing more in common than the fact that they had answered the call to fight for a cause that didn’t concern them, and that their lives had been tragically cut short.

A shadow passed over the sergeant’s face. “We can’t take any chances. Evans, James, Carter and Turner- ”

“No.”

It was spoken quietly, this single word of defiance, but it was not unheard. Dean and the rest of soldiers immeadiately spun to face Turner, shock etched on their faces at the refusal to follow an order. McTavish himself looked like he didn’t know what to say for a few seconds, but he quickly recovered.

“What the hell do you mean, ‘no’?” he growled. “That was an order, Private Turner, and it’s not open for discussion.”

Turner stared rebelliously back at his commanding officer, his face pale and strained but determined, and his eyes sparked with an unwavering boldness. “I won’t do it,” he said lowly, his voice shaking slightly, but still so threatening. The trembling of his body added to the tense readiness of his muscles suggested that he’d be willing to turn physical if necessary, and Dean didn’t like to think of what could possibly happen if that occurred. “If you knew, if you _knew_ what you were askin’ me to do, you wouldn’t dare to expect such a thing of me. An’ if you were me, you’d do the same. You would defy orders too. I don’ care what you do to me, I _don’ care_ how you punish me, but I won’t do it. I won’t kill women and children.” His normal tone of indifference had been replaced by something more feral, something more wild and desperate, and Dean and the rest of the men save Evans waited with bated breath to see how Sergeant McTavish would react to such insubordination.

The sergeant went white with fury. “You _dare_ ,” he began, his voice deadly quiet.

“I dare,” Turner broke in. “An’ if you try an’ make me, then I’ll fookin’ desert the army. I’ll walk out to that damned village an’ let ‘em kill me. _I don’ care_. But I won’t do it.” 

There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that Turner wouldn’t do what he’d promised. He was that sort of man, the dangerous and lethal kind, who didn’t make promises he wouldn’t keep. He just prayed that for Adam’s sake, the punishment the soldier would receive for defying an order wasn’t too harsh.

A vein throbbed in McTavish’s temple, and the old soldier was fuming, thunderously angry. “Evans, Carter, James – you know what to do,” he barked, renaming the soldiers who he’d previously listed, minus Turner. “Williams, you’re with them too.” The named soldiers nodded, some a bit hesitantly, and Dean saw a dark shadow settle on Evans’ face as he led the men off to do what had been silently instructed. The sergeant faced Turner again, anger and rage etched into his facial expression and seeping out from every pore in his body. “ _You_ , Private Turner, will be sent back to headquarters and placed in solitary confinement for six months as a basic sentence, and stripped of any allowance or monetary payment you would have received in that time the minute we get back to camp and I radio for a chopper to come and get you. You are more trouble than you’re worth – you’re reckless and impulsive, defiant, and clearly not willing to follow orders or instructions, and I would agree whole-heartedly with my superiors should you be discharged from the army due to dishonourable conduct.”

Dean felt a jolt of icy horror spread through his body, his eyes widening in disbelief as he stared back and forth between the dark-haired soldier and McTavish. Turner took the delivery of his punishment quietly, not saying anything – Dean even thought he saw him nod slightly as he swallowed hard – but the New Zealander had learnt by now (partly due to previous personal experiences) that when the Irishman tightened his jaw he was terrifyingly angry, and Turner was tightening his jaw now. With a final vicious stare at the disgraced soldier, McTavish gave the order to move out from the edge of the clearing, meaning to wait for the other four soldiers some way away from the village.

The first grenade exploded as Dean pushed himself up to a standing position, and he jerked around to face the village, his lips parting and the colour draining from his face as the first screams and wails began, rising up to the sky like hands reaching for deliverance. Debris rained down on the trashed crop fields, with some of the lighter and smaller pieces being thrown higher into the air and taking longer to fall. He stumbled back in shock at the second explosion, throwing his hands over his ringing ears as he lurched behind the small group of soldiers. His camera was still around his neck and it swung heavily, thumping into his chest painfully. Pregnant clouds of dust billowed upwards and hung lowly as the third and fourth grenades went off, followed shortly by a small burst of gunfire. Turner stood with his back to the village and his head bowed, clutching the barrel of his gun loosely in his left hand while his shoulders jerked in a flinch with every explosion and cry of pain. His face was scrunched up in sympathetic agony, his eyes shut tight, and Dean could have sworn that he saw a tiny, crystalline tear make its way through the dirt and dust that had gathered on his face. His khaki-clad body was nothing more than a silhouette against the grey dust and he stood stock-still, unmovable against the sounds of the destruction and butchery that was occurring behind him.

Dean barely managed to raise his camera to his face and snap a picture of the scene before he stumbled dizzily over to the nearest tree, ripping his camera from his neck and placing it gently on the ground before he vomited repeatedly, dry-heaving until there was nothing left in his stomach and he was only bringing up bile. The other soldiers only looked on understandingly and the photojournalist’s body was racked with sobs and shudders, his fingers digging into the bark of the tree to keep him upright and driving splinters into the sensitive skin under his fingernails.

He didn’t flinch when he felt a cautious hand on his back, soothingly rubbing a few light circles awkwardly before it was lifted off, almost reluctantly yet with the speed of someone who’d been burned. Dean didn’t say anything as he gratefully accepted the small bottle of water from Aidan, feeling closer to the Irishman in that moment than he ever had before.

*****

The trek back to camp was completed in total silence, with no one daring to say a word. Dean had found his place next to a rather subdued Aidan, whose facial expression was hard to read. Sergeant McTavish was still extremely furious, and he strode violently ahead at the front of the group.

The soldiers and Dean arrived back at the campsite around late afternoon, the warmness of the sun’s rays doing nothing to warm Dean’s insides, frozen after what he’d just witnessed. Adam knew the moment they stepped out of the cover of the forest that something was wrong, despair and terror crashing onto his face in one mixed and hurried emotion as McTavish issued a gravelly instruction to Aidan to gather his equipment and pack other various items of personal belonging.

“A-Aidan?” Adam asked uncertainly. When the Irishman didn’t say anything, Adam repeated his name, a little more desperately. “Aidan?!”

The look Aidan turned and gave Adam was so full of sorrow and melancholy that Dean almost _heard_ the young soldier’s heartbreak as Aidan shook his head gently, before turning and walking slowly away to their shared tent. The rest of the soldiers – including the ones that had stayed behind at camp – gathered cautiously, unsure of what was going on and staring at the scene with wide and unknowing eyes.

Adam made to go after his friend, but he was stopped by short words from Sergeant McTavish.

“Turner has a job to do, Private Brown, and he does not need you distracting him,” the middle-aged soldier called gruffly as he moved purposely to where the camp’s radio was kept. “And I’m sure the rest of you have better things to be doing than standing around like old gossiping women.” As soon as the words had left the commanding soldier’s mouth, the remaining soldiers scattered, although some (like Evans, Carter, James and Williams) moved more slowly than others, clearly haunted by the events of earlier. Soon it was just Adam and Dean left.

“Dean?” the young soldier asked hollowly, hugging his arms to his chest and slowly spinning to face the New Zealander. “W-what…?”

Dean swallowed, closing his eyes for a brief few seconds before opening them, dropping his equipment gently onto the ground before lowering himself down. “Bodies,” he said quietly, his voice nothing more than a croak from all the dry heaving and retching he’d done. “A whole platoon of them – massacred… they’d been dragged into one of the huts of the village. Children and women occupied another.” His throat closed over and the ghostly screams rang in his ears again.

“No,” Adam broke in. “No, tell me they didn’t.” When Dean didn’t say anything, Adam moaned, sinking down to his knees.

“Aidan was one of the soldiers picked to do it,” the photojournalist went on hoarsely. “But he refused. He told Sergeant McTavish that if he made him do it, he’d desert, or just walk out in front of us and allow himself to be killed by the people. Evans said there were a few young men. I’m sure they would have had guns.”

Adam’s lips were moving wordlessly, but Dean knew what he would be saying. _No, no, no, no, no no nononononono._

“McTavish is probably radioing for a helicopter to come and pick Aidan up now,” Dean continued lifelessly. He found that once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. “Six months solitary confinement as a starting sentence, with the likely possibility of being discharged from the military for dishonourable conduct. In other words, McTavish has had enough of him and would rather let someone else deal with the problem.”

“No,” Adam finally whimpered disbelievingly. “He-he can’t do that. I have to talk to him- I have to tell him _why_ Aidan… I _have_ to _try_ and get him to see reason- he _can’t_ …” He heaved himself to his feet again, lurching off in the direction McTavish had gone, most likely to beg and plead with the old soldier.

Dean didn’t have the heart to tell him that he didn’t think it would be any use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/52773989887/source-unknown-pregnant-clouds-of-dust-billowed#notes) is where you can find the photo that inspired this chapter, as well as some extra information.
> 
> And because I like to inflict just a little bit more angst on all of you, go [here](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/52774404460/a-paramedic-performs-mouth-to-mouth-on-a-dying#notes) to read about Sergeant Armitage.
> 
> Also, regarding the punishment that Sergeant McTavish mentions at the end of the chapter... I'm not totally sure if that's right. I mean, this is what came up (or something similar) when I researched it, so I'm not completely sure. I apologise if it's wrong. (But hey, FICTION, yeah?)


	6. 5 - An Inevitable Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No war action in this one I'm afraid, but we'll get into that next chapter slightly. I'd also like to point out that the opinions, beliefs and views that my characters have are not necessarily mine - I don't want anybody to be offended by unintentionally causing them to think that.
> 
> I realise now that it might have been more authentic and realistic for the soldiers to be continually on the move camp-wise, and to make McTavish's group of soldiers a platoon rather a squad (which would probably be more specialist areas and be within a platoon), so (and I don't know if I've mentioned an exact number previously within the story) I've imagined there to be around 15 soldiers in total, including Sergeant McTavish, which is bigger than your typical squad, but just smaller than a platoon.
> 
> A big thank you to all my readers especially those that make my day with all their brilliant comments. And a massive thanks (complete with a hug) goes to [queenmab_scherzo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo), for her wonderful feedback and help.

It was sometime later that Dean managed to push himself to his feet with shaky legs and boneless arms. He managed to heft his pack of equipment onto his back and set off for his tent, his legs feeling like rubber with every step he took across the hard-packed dirt.  When he reached his tent, he slowly and carefully lowered his equipment onto the thin mattress he slept on, idly beginning to unpack gradually, needing something to occupy his trembling hands and reeling mind. He sighed a short time later, giving up on trying to focus on anything but the previous events of the afternoon, rocking back slightly on his heels and pinching the corner of his eyes on either side of his nose with his thumb and his forefinger, as if by pressing hard enough to elicit the exploding black dots behind his eyelids, he would manage to erase his visual and auditory memories for those ten minutes or so by the village.

The crack of a branch behind him sent Dean whirling around to his feet, stumbling back in his sudden movement so that he almost went careening into the tent behind him. The photojournalist’s blue eyes were wide with shock, and he breathed carefully to calm his adrenaline-fuelled racing heart and speedy rise-and-fall of his chest. Aidan stood in front of him with a sorrowful yet firm look decorating his dirt-streaked face. His creased eyebrows served to turn the expression into something similar to the one that the soldier wore when he was angry or extremely pissed off. But there was a striking difference – a softness in the muscles around his eyes and a shine in his irises that Dean hadn’t seen before while the soldier’s dark brows were raised slightly in earnest.

Aidan took what sounded like a shuddery breath. “I’m not gonna hurt you, O’Gorman,” he said softly, his voice slightly croaky as he shook his head lightly for emphasis. Dean’s eyes widened even more at the use of his name for the first time. “I jus’…” He sighed, glancing away for a few precious seconds. “I jus’ need to talk to you.”

The tension left Dean’s body, weariness slackening his posture as he slumped visibly now that there appeared to be no sign of a threat.

“Look,” Aidan continued quietly, taking another cautious step forward and peering around so as to not be overheard by others. “I’m gonna be… I’m gonna be shipped outta here in what could possibly be a matter of hours, and I need to make sure that Adam…” He broke off for a few seconds, chewing his bottom lip. Dean still hadn’t moved, save for the change of posture. The Irish soldier in front of him looked like he was waging an internal war with himself, like he wasn’t sure whether to keep talking to the blonde photographer or not.  Aidan growled in frustration, the sound low and vibrating in his throat, and Dean closed his eyes briefly, the movement a substitute for a flinch, which he didn’t think that the dark-haired man would have taken too kindly to.

“I don’ like trustin’ others,” the soldier finally went on to say, reiterating his point from earlier in the day. “But you… You’re different, somehow. I want - I _need_ …”

Dean waited, but it seemed like the Irishman was having difficulty with his words. He watched as Aidan exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair in a strained and tense motion.

“I know the others’ll look out for him in fights or confrontations,” he said, still continuing his soft tone, but his voice hardened on the next sentence. “Because they know that if anythin’ happens to him I’ll kill the bastards.” Dean couldn’t tell whether Aidan was serious or his words were just a figure of speech. “But here, around camp… Adam needs a friend. Someone he can rely on. Someone he can… someone he can trust. And if I can’t fill that position…” Aidan raised his eyes from where he’d had them trained on the dirt by the corner of Dean’s tent, staring intently into the other man’s eyes. “I need you to be that friend. He won’t survive out here without someone – I can feel it. It will be the death of him if he don’ have someone to depend on. Please,” and now the Irish soldier was begging, his tone of voice having completely tempered to something unrecognisable, but Dean was still able to detect more than just a hint of desperation that shadowed the layers of foreign accent. “Please,” Aidan repeated, another step forward bringing him closer to Dean, while his dark eyes had enlarged in earnest.

The New Zealander nodded, swallowing hard to wet his dry throat before he answered. “I would have done it anyway,” he said. “Even if you hadn’t asked.” He paused, another thought occurring to him suddenly. “But…” Dean stared up at Aidan, the other man being a few inches taller than him. “I’m only out here for…” He quickly did the math in his head. “Well, it’s now less than two weeks. You’ll be gone for longer than that.” This time, Dean did flinch when a dark shadow settled over the soldier’s face at the reminder of his punishment. “Sorry, I didn’t mean,” he began, trying to amend his words.

Shaking his head, Aidan stared at the dust and clods of earth by his feet again. “No,” he said, with a sigh, “don’t apologise.” He was silent for a few seconds more, and Dean was curious about the change in the soldier’s erratic behaviour, as unpredictable as it was. Then he looked up, meeting the photojournalist’s eyes once more. “Thank you,” he said, and his voice was so quiet that it was nearly a whisper. Dean raised the corners of his mouth in a small smile, considered sad by the content of the conversation. His smile faltered slightly as Aidan – what the _fuck_ , he hadn’t been prepared for that reaction at _all_ – subtly _returned Dean’s smile._ Though it was small, it still managed to light up his features, chasing away the worry that had been previously displayed there, and reached his eyes, making them crinkle at the corners just so ever slightly. Dean barely wasted a second before stretching his mouth wider, pleased with the response he had elicited from the normally-brooding soldier. Aidan continued to smile softly at him for a few seconds more, and (not to be totally clichéd or anything) Dean felt a pleasurable warmth radiate through his body.

Finally though, the smile dimmed, dropping to the ground by the military-issued boots and being replaced by a slightly tense and cautious look as Aidan ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, like he was embarrassed to have shown such a rare emotion on his face, and turned slowly, walking away and leaving Dean still smiling widely at the retreating back of the soldier, frozen to the spot with dumb-struck awe.

*****

Dean sat by himself in the growing darkness that night, staring at the plate of uneaten food on the ground in front of him. Like the previous night, he was leaning back against the corrugated roof of a bunker, although neither Adam nor Aidan were with him. He had barely seen either of them over the course of the dying afternoon after his conversation with the Irishman, and guessed that the friends would likely be spending as much time with each other as they could before...

A loud burst of laughter filtered from around behind the bunker, coughed out into the impending darkness by one of the men who clearly hadn’t witnessed the events of the afternoon. Dean ground his teeth together, breathing in deeply and leaning back, resting his head on the bumpy metal and closing his eyes. As hard as he tried to conjure up a more pleasant image – _Aidan smiling_ , for one – a movie reel of memories from the village ran through his mind, stuck on repeat, and he couldn’t stop hearing the cries of the children and women as they suffered brutality at the hands of Evans and the other three men – men who were supposed to be the _good guys_ in this war. Dean had only been out in the jungle for two days, but already he was starting to rethink his views on the world and the current situation of the men he was sharing a camp with for the next ten or so days.

He kept his eyes closed when he felt the soft brush of fabric against his bare arm and the slide of human flesh stretched thinly over bones bump into him lightly as Adam sat down beside him.

“Not hungry?” he asked softly, and Dean opened his eyes, sighing heavily and feeling like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“I can’t,” he began. “Not after…” He broke off, shaking his head. “It will most like come back up if I try.” Adam gently touched their shoulders together sympathetically. “I mean,” Dean swallowed, “I knew that terrible, shitty things happened out here, but I didn’t think… I didn’t think it would be like this,” he finished softly.

“No one ever does,” Adam answered quietly.

Turning his head, Dean made a mental note of the absence of a plate of food in front of the soldier. “You not hungry either?”

Adam only shook his head. The two men were quiet, listening to the hum of the men’s chatter and the sounds of the jungle around them. Dean was thankful that no explosion or far-off attack had happened like the previous night, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t expecting it to happen again sometime throughout the duration of the night.

“I… I tried to talk to Sergeant McTavish,” Adam started, his voice broken and hollow. “About sending Aidan away.”

“And?” Dean knew the answer by the tone of the soldier’s voice, but he still thought he should get verbal confirmation.

The young man shook his head violently again, not trusting himself to speak. “I don’t know what I’ll do when he goes,” Adam said dejectedly, his voice quivering like he was trying to hold himself back from crying. Dean imagined that it was a very real possibility, what with the friendship between the two soldiers and how much the younger man relied upon the slightly older Irishman for guidance and reassurance. Protection, too.

Not knowing what else to do, Dean shifted his position on the ground slightly, reaching around to put his arm around Adam’s bony shoulders. “I know it’s not the same thing,” he told him, “but… I’m here. Just… y’know, if you need a friend or anything.” He refrained from reminding Adam that it would only be short-lived, not wanting to upset the distraught soldier even more.

“Thank you,” Adam whispered. “That… that means a lot.”

Dean tried to send him a reassuring smile, although he had no idea how successful he was. Something made him look up, and he saw a dark shadow standing off in the distance. The shadow stared at the scene by the bunker, the setting sun a deep red behind him. After some time, the shadow relinquished his watch post, and Dean watched as Aidan spun around and strode off into the coming night.

*****

Like the previous night, Dean only fell asleep a few hours before dawn, and it was due to pure mental exhaustion, as well as the added factor of the lack of sleep he had gotten the other night. When he did finally fall asleep, however, it wasn’t a restful one. His dreams were plagued by the sound of exploding grenades and gunshots, the image of the soldier lining up his gun with the small, oblivious Vietnamese child permanently painted behind his eyelids, until it slowly transitioned to the silhouette of the enigmatic and perplexing Irish soldier standing with his back to the village as the dust billowed and rose up into the sky. His body finally jerked him awake as the sun rose fully, settling into its position in the sky with an unforgivingly hot gaze, and as he lay with his chest rising and falling rapidly like any one would after a nightmare, Dean knew it would be another humid day.

He struggled out of his tent, leaving a sleeping Mark behind and swapping his cotton t-shirt that he slept in for another dull khaki shirt, buttoning it up while he walked to the area of the camp where a make-shift kitchen had been set up. Dean yawned, using the heel of his palm to rub his eyes, and sat in the vacant spot next to Evans’ moustached friend.

The soldier grinned at the photojournalist, who was still hazy from his scarce hours of sleep, and his smile was bright - like a light being shone in Dean’s eyes - and he imperceptibly flinched as the man greeted him with an, “Alright there, O’Gorman?”

Dean grunted out a reply, shrugging his shoulders at the same time. The soldier didn’t take offense at the lack of response, however, rather interpreting it to mean that the New Zealander hadn’t fully roused himself from the clutches of sleep yet. Instead, he passed Dean a plate of breakfast, and the photographer forced himself to eat at least half of it; his stomach growled with hunger despite the fact that he didn’t trust that he would keep the food down.

Two more soldiers wandered out a few minutes later, when Dean had reverted to pushing his remaining food around his plate dully. They sat themselves down across from Dean and one of them yawned.

“You sleep a’right, Williams?” asked one of the soldiers.

The soldier who yawned gave a wide grin. “Oh, yeah,” he answered, scratching at his cheek before running a hand through his brown hair. “Like a baby once I knew that fuckin’ psycho’s gettin’ shipped out and not likely to murder me in my sleep for _lookin_ ’ at him the wrong way or somethin’.”

“Watch it, man,” the blonde soldier who had sat down with him broke in. “O’Gorman’s friends with him. Ain’t that right, O’Gorman? You’re all buddies with ’im?”

There was a stuttered cough from one of the soldiers and sudden murmurs. Feeling eyes on him, Dean, who hadn’t been paying attention, glanced up suddenly, his brow furrowing.

“What?” he asked, sleeplessness making him snappy.

“You’re friends with him, aren’t you?”

His frown deepened. “Who?”

 The brown-haired Williams pulled a face before leaning forward and saying in a stage-whisper, “ _Turner_.”

“Define ‘friends’,” Dean muttered, thinking of how it didn’t even really matter to him if his ludicrous hope of requited feelings became a reality – just to establish a friendship with the elusive and defensive Irish soldier would be enough. ( _For now_ , that annoying part of brain added.) “But yeah, I guess. We can hold a civil conversation most of the time, if that’s how you’re defining it. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“You wanna watch your back, pal,” Williams continued. “Especially if you hang with Brown. Who _knows_ how much he’s been influenced by the resident murderer. Anything’s possible. Even for a guy who resembles a stick and looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly.” He shrugged.

Dean snorted bitterly, not liking the sudden and unprovoked attack on Adam and his Irish friend. “Yeah, that’s rich, considering what you did yesterday,” he retorted icily. He sat his plate on the ground before standing up. All the men had gone silent, watching the scene unfold before them.

Williams went dead white, all the cockiness and egotistical arrogance wiped off his face in an instant. “Don’t you _dare_ give me a lecture,” he said, and in a flash he was on his feet, crowding Dean back against a bunker that had seemingly appeared from nowhere, and it was instances like this that made the blonde photographer loathe his lack of height. He swallowed, keeping his ground.

“Oh _please_.” He rolled his eyes sarcastically. Being threatened by both Turner and Evans had made him slightly more immune than others to the ‘looming’ tactic of intimidation. “If you think that leaning over me like a fucking giant is going scare me, then you’re going to have to do a lot better.”

“Killing under orders is a lot different from killing _in cold blood_ ,” Williams hissed, his hands shooting out and grabbing Dean by the shoulders, before pushing him back into the bunker hard. He grunted as he felt his spine hit one of the prominent ridges roughly and a loud and resounding _bang_ of hollow metal rang out. He heard his shirt rip from where the soldier’s fingers had gotten caught in the breast pocket and losing his balance, Dean slid to the ground, surprised that Sergeant McTavish hadn’t come running yet.

Feeling something warm and coppery tasting in his mouth, Dean spat out rust-red blood, spraying it over the rust-red earth as he gently probed his tongue with his teeth and realised that he’d bitten it on the impact. “Well you didn’t seem to be showing too much remorse yesterday,” he managed to grind out darkly, idly wondering why all the other men were just watching with a disgusted eagerness. Only Evans’ moustached friend was missing, but Dean didn’t care too much about where he’d gone.

A well-aimed kick to the ribs left Dean gasping for air, his hand flying to wrap protectively around his abdomen. Williams leaned down, looming into Dean’s face. “You don’t get,” he began, his voice dangerously quiet, “to fucking waltz in here and act like you’re better than everyone else because you still have your innocence.” His words were a ghostly echo of Aidan’s from the bunkhouse, and the blonde photojournalist gulped, resulting in a harsh cough as he fought to breath in another gasp of air. “You don’t get,” Williams continued, “to come out here and judge who we are – _what_ we are – without knowing the whole story- ”

“Isn’t that what you’re doing, though?” Dean said, pushing himself to his knees before rising to his feet, placing a hand on the burning metal of the corrugated bunker and using it to help support his body. “If Aidan hasn’t told you- ”

“Oh, look, they’re on a first-name basis,” Williams drawled, his voice as rough as sandpaper and his tone as sharp as nails. “What next – holding hands and skipping through daisies?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you,” Dean snapped, beginning to walk off as his stomach lurched pathetically and his heart beat faster. “I’m sick of all this macho-soldier bullshit that seems to be ingrained in all of you bloody Americans.”

“That’s it!” Williams yelled after the photojournalist’s retreating back. “Walk away like the coward you are! Walk away and forget all the fuckin’ shitty things happening out here while you’re back in you’re friggin’ blanket fort at home, too fuckin’ scared to be out here with the rest of us brave soldiers- ”

“Jack, that’s _enough_ ,” Dean dimly heard Evans growl behind him as he staggered back to his tent. “Shut the fuck up, and if you open that damn mouth of yours again, I swear to God, it will be _you_ that ends up on your ass in the fucking dirt.”

Dean spat another mouthful of blood out, clothing a sparse clump of grass with a mixture of saliva and gore as the silence rang out loudly behind him. “‘Brave soliders’?” he repeated bitterly to himself, his shoulders hunched in anger and his head lowered in a glare. “More like stupid young men who didn’t know what they were doing when they signed up.”

And in his anger he didn’t notice the dark and silent observer hidden in the shade of a wall of sandbags that was Aidan.

*****

“Dean!”

Adam’s cry was the only warning Dean got before the spindly young man was upon him, his hands immeadiately fluttering to the other’s torn shirt with wide eyes as he searched comically for injuries. Dean winced when Adam’s hand skimmed over his torso with too much pressure, and he was sure that there was still some residue of blood on his lips.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay? What happened?”

“Adam,” Dean said warningly as he shrugged off Adam’s hands and continued the trek to his tent, “leave it, alright?”

“But, Dean- ”

“It’s just me and my big mouth again, okay?” Dean turned around in defeat and spread his hands wide, gesturing wildly as he walked backwards.

“Dean- ”

“Just… drop it okay?”

“Uh, Dean?”

“Adam, seriously. It’s not like I- ” Dean spun back around on his heel, only to come face to face with the stubble-crusted throat of Aidan. Leaping back as if he’d been burned, Dean fruitlessly tried to stop himself from flushing violently as Aidan only raised an eyebrow and stared at him with a strange and curious expression on his face that hid something darker underneath.

“S-sorry,” Dean stammered, finding that every time he breathed, Aidan’s scent wafted further and further up his nostrils ( _What the_ fuck _, O’Gorman? Get a grip on yourself!_ ).

This time, Aidan raised both eyebrows, and with that expression on his face, Dean didn’t know whether he was amused or not impressed.

“L-look, I’ve gotta,” he barely managed to mumble before pushing past the tall and imposing Irish soldier and continuing on to his tent, trying to furiously stop his brain from conjuring up the memory of that split second where his and Aidan’s bodies had been flush against each other. His fingers still trembled with adrenaline from the encounter with Williams earlier and Dean fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, ripping the bottom two off with a strong yank.

“For God’s sake, Dean, could you just- ” Adam’s exasperated voice winded through the tents as he caught up to the photojournalist now that he’d stopped moving.

“ _What,_ Adam?” Now shirtless, Dean began to shift through his bag and equipment, trying to find a new shirt. “Install a filter between my brain and mouth? Believe me, others have tried and failed before me.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Adam sighed. “I don’t even know what the hell happened – but something _did_ to make you like this, and those _bruises_ – shit Dean. I…” His voice softened. “You know that you can talk me about anything, right?”

Dean paused, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know,” he replied, just as softly. He was about to resume his search for a shirt when he felt a heavy gaze rake over his naked and upper body that was already beginning to bruise in interesting patterns and shapes – namely the sole of a boot. He turned, finding Aidan standing behind Adam and peering over his friend’s shoulder. It was Dean’s turn to raise an eyebrow this time.

“Keep staring and I start charging,” he said dryly, saying the first thing that came into his head, and- was Aidan _blushing_ as he ducked his head and focused his attention on the dirt by his boots?

Dean heard Adam snort as he swivelled back around, letting out a small cry of triumph as he found a shirt. He slung it over his shoulders, threading his arms through the sleeves and standing up while he began to button it up.

“Look,” Adam sighed, giving in to Dean’s ambiguous answers. “Just… be careful, okay? Can you promise me that? The jungle is an unpredictable place, and it can change men out here.”

The blonde New Zealander nodded. “I promise,” he said, finishing up with the buttons and fixing the shirt’s collar around his neck.

The young soldier gave him a smile that was tense but pleased, and with a quick glance at Aidan, he left. Dean watched him go, not realising that the Irishman had remained until he spoke.

“It’s dangerous makin’ enemies with the rest o’ the men,” he said softly.

“What?” Dean frowned, turning to face him.

Aidan refused to meet the photojournalist’s eyes. “I saw what you did,” he answered.

“And what was that?”

“You defending me.” This time, Aidan looked up at Dean. “And Adam. Us,” he hastily added.

Dean shot him a curious look as he bent to pick up a stray item of clothing that had fallen from his bag. He shook dirt from it and threw it back in his tent.

Having not gained a reaction from Dean, Aidan hurried on. “Look, you don’ need to do that; I can take care of myself jus’ fine.”

“I didn’t do it specifically for you.”

Aidan frowned. “Wha’?”

“I said,” Dean turned to face him, “I didn’t do it specifically for you. Do you really think that Adam needs to be hearing shit like that about his best friend when he’s just about to lose him? Even if it’s just whispers? The world doesn’t totally revolve around you, you know.” He smirked slightly over his shoulder as he stalked off, letting the Irishman know that he was joking and that no, it would not be necessary to kill him in his sleep. Mentally, he wondered just what had changed between them that allowed him to direct light-hearted comments at the soldier and not expect to be impaled on a glare in return; perhaps it was the mutual understanding and comfort that they had shared yesterday at the sight of the destroyed village, which was now nothing more than a graveyard of buildings and bodies.

“E-excuse me…?” he heard Aidan half-mutter, and he knew the soldier was trying to figure out how to react to Dean’s behaviour.

“Look,” Dean said, spinning back around like before and coming face-to-face with Aidan again. “Just…” he waved his hands wildly, “forget it, okay? I didn’t do it as a favour, or anything. I just don’t think people should be too hasty to judge.”

“Right. Sure. Whatever,” the dark-haired man concluded with a frown on his face, and Dean could tell that something had shaken him or put him off. His dark eyes flicked up and down Dean’s body again as he thought deeply, making the photographer feeling more than slightly self-conscious, then he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing deliciously.

Dean felt his mouth go dry.

“Whatever,” Aidan repeated, shaking his head to himself and following Adam’s footsteps away from the blonde New Zealander.

“Why did you refuse?” Dean suddenly called out, and Aidan froze.

“What?” he asked, turning his head to the side to glance over his shoulder.

“McTavish yesterday. Why did you refuse his orders?”

Dean started to regret his question when he saw the way that the muscles in Turner’s back and shoulders tightened with sudden tension. But surprisingly, the soldier’s behaviour didn’t become aggressive or hostile like the New Zealander had expected it to, and he was once again reminded of how much he _didn’t_ know about the enigma in front of him. Turner’s words though, were rather stiff and sounded more than a little forced.

“When there’s something that you believe in wholeheartedly and without a doubt,” the Irish soldier began, a dark edge to his words, “then you’re more than willing to live by your beliefs and stand up for them, regardless of the consequences. Because in the end, you know it’s the right thing to do.” He shook his head, seemingly forgetting that Dean was there. “That way I can still live with myself and what I’ve done every day, despite the repercussions it will bring. And that’s the difference between me and them.”

A sudden load burst of static broke through the air, preventing Dean from answering, and he turned his head in the direction of the camp’s radio, where the noise had come from. He distantly heard a soldier calling for McTavish over the airwaves, and there was a twisting in Dean’s gut as all the possibilities that the transmission could bring ran through his mind rapidly. When he swung back around to face Turner, the man’s head was hanging lowly and his posture was slumped, like a man awaiting his inevitable execution, and the photojournalist realised the importance of the radio call to him.

“Hey,” Dean said softly, and Aidan glanced up at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after Adam.”

Aidan swallowed, a juddering sigh sweeping through his chest. “Right,” he said distractedly. “O-of course. Adam will be safe.” He nodded to himself before fixing Dean with a piercing gaze. “Adam will be safe, but who’s gonna look out for you?”

Dean’s mouth was arid and parched as the reality of the question hit his gut with an icy force and radiated outwards through his body, numbing his toes and the tips of his fingers. “Y-you… what?” he started, stumbling over the words as he fought to get his question out. Aidan wasn’t looking for a response however, and with a last look at the blonde man that the New Zealander couldn’t decipher, he repeated the ending of all their conversations; swivelling on his feet and walking away into the dust-coated air that stifled and drowned the camp with desperation and hopelessness.

*****

Dean found Adam leaning against a corrugated bunker a short time later, a photograph in his hands.

“Hey,” he said softly, lowering himself down to sit next to the young soldier.

Adam flushed and dropped the photo into his lap, covering it with his hands, but not before Dean had glimpsed the face of a young woman. “Hey,” he returned, not meeting the New Zealander’s gaze.

The two men sat in silence for a while before Dean took a breath and said, “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I just… Some of the others were giving me a hard time, and I couldn’t- ” He broke off, taking a deep breath. “I let it get to me, and sort of…. Might have unintentionally turned some of that frustration out on you.”

Adam turned his head to glance at Dean, his muddy irises wide in earnest. “You shouldn’t let them do that, you know,” he said. “But honestly? I think they’re jealous. I mean, in just over a week you’ll be… Well. You’ll be home sooner than they will.” The unspoken _you’re leaving, just like him. Just like Aidan_ hung in the air heavily between the soldier and the photographer, and Dean cringed inwardly at how negative the conversation had suddenly become.

 Adam tensed at the far-off buzzing of a helicopter, and Dean closed his eyes in anticipation of Sergeant McTavish ordering the departure of Aidan, but the chopper stayed away, its sound eventually being reduced to nothing more than that of a mosquito. Shortly after it had disappeared, the faint boom of a far-off explosion resonated through the clearing, and Adam inhaled sharply while the detonation only served to remind Dean of the horrors he’d witnessed the previous day.

Trying to steer the conversation back onto a lighter topic, Dean nudged his friend lightly with his shoulder, nodding down at his lap. “Who’s that?”

Adam blushed. “N-no one,” he stuttered.

“Oh, come on,” Dean smiled. “I’m not gonna tease or anything.” The red flush on the soldier’s cheeks deepened. “Is she your girlfriend?”

“N-not really,” the young man managed. “I-I mean, we’ve gone out a few times, and we’ve kissed once or twice, but…”

Dean lifted off the hands that protected the photograph. He reached out, his eyes flicking quickly up to Adam’s face as he silently asked for permission, before plucking it from the soldier’s lap and turning it over. “She’s pretty,” he said, and he meant it, staring at the black-and-white portrait of a light-haired girl with serious eyes that were hidden behind a pair of glasses and a shy but nice smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “What’s her name?”

“Sylvia,” Adam muttered.

There was a horizontal crease from where the photo had been folded in half numerous times below the chin of the girl – for she couldn’t have been more than nineteen – and Dean could see the white from the photographic paper starting to come through. “She’s really pretty,” he repeated, looking across to smile reassuringly at Adam.

There was a small smile that pulled the young man’s lips upwards, and he took the picture back when Dean offered it in his outstretched hand, folding it in half and placing it in his breast pocket above his heart before buttoning the pocket closed carefully. “Thanks,” he said softly. “The others- they used to tease me. Say that it was a strange why a girl like her could be interested in someone like me. It was only teasing, but…” He shrugged.

“And why wouldn’t she be interested in you?” Dean demanded. “You’re the nicest and kindest person I’ve ever met. You’re better than those bloody big oafs over there.” He motioned with his head over to where a few of the soldiers lounged in the sun, shirtless in the humidity and smoking.

“I’m weak,” Adam started. “I’m a coward. A push-over- ”

“You’re brave,” Dean stated firmly. “You didn’t want to come over here to Vietnam, but here you are. That’s incredibly courageous of you.”

“Or stupid,” the soldier broke in, and the photojournalist snorted, shaking his blonde head.

“Brave,” he reiterated.  “I couldn’t have done it. I may be here now, but it’s not exactly by choice.” He briefly recalled the realisation where he’d have to take the assignment or risk looking for a second job on the side to prevent him from being thrown out on the street by his landlord. “You’re a hero; protecting your country.”

“From what, though?” Adam asked. “There was no direct threat to us – it’s just a stupid shitty civil war – so why are we still here?”

Dean didn’t have an answer to that.

The young American sighed, and this time it was he who tried to change the topic. “So what about you?” he asked. “Have you got a girlfriend waiting for you back home?”

“Me?” Dean raised eyebrows, slightly taken aback by the question. He blew out a puff of air through his mouth loudly. “Nah, it’s just…” A movie reel of images rolled through his mind’s eye – of one night stands with men he never found out the names of in the months leading to his accepting of the Vietnam assignment; of feigning interest in women when he went out with drinking with his mates to hide his closeted sexuality; of the many failed relationships he’d previously had with women and trying to figure out over condensation-frosted glass bottles of alcohol just _what_ about them had been so disastrous, just _what_ about the women themselves that had been so wrong – because surely it wasn’t him, right? Right. Only, he hadn’t believed it all that much, and when Dean had finally given in and acknowledged that he was gay after he had caught himself subtly checking out other men at the bars he’d hit with his friends, it was like a huge sigh of relief, like he no longer carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. But that had only led to a sexual life covered in shadows and deception – and somehow that all appealed to Dean, made everything more exciting. He knew that he’d eventually have to face the reality of maybe coming out to his friends – but he was scared that they wouldn’t accept him anymore, and the thought of alienation brought about a frozen tightness in his chest, one that couldn’t be replaced by all the dirty shenanigans in the world that occurred behind locked and bolted doors, in barely soundproofed rooms, and with nameless and handsome young men and their lithe and sweaty bodies.

Dean noticed Adam was staring at him, and it was his turn to blush. “It’s just me,” he finished, and Adam nodded knowingly.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I’m sure there’s someone out there for you.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed softly. “Maybe.” And he’d be lying if he said that he wasn’t hopelessly thinking about dark, burning eyes and the deep and rough voice of an Irishman who, come tomorrow, would be nothing more than a figment of his memory.

*****

 Adam and Dean continued to sit and talk – about anything and everything but choosing to ignore the war (though how they could manage to forget it even for a brief period of time Dean would never know) – for a while after that, relocating to Dean’s tent (an area that was more protected from the sun) when Adam noticed the pink layer of sunburn beginning to stretch across Dean’s nose.

“Turner!”

Adam stopped what he was saying mid-sentence – something about planning to return to his study of law at college when the war was over – and struggled to his feet upon hearing McTavish’s gravelly voice ring out across camp. Dean frowned and followed suit, watching Aidan appear from his own tent that he shared with the young soldier currently beside him.

“Sir,” he said, hesitating over the response as his posture stiffened and his face darkened as the older soldier drew closer. The New Zealander could see some of the other soldiers turn their heads and look on curiously, some folding their arms across their chests and staring scornfully at their Irish comrade.

The bald sergeant looked the insubordinate dark-haired soldier up and down before fixing him with a withering glare. “Command just radioed in,” he began gruffly.

Turner ducked his head, swallowing hard and staring at the ground, awaiting the deliverance of the remainder of time he would be spending at camp before being helicoptered out to begin his sentence. His face had closed off completely, no emotion being allowed to stain his neutral expression, and his eyes bored holes into loose dust covering the ground.

McTavish seemed to falter over his next words. “There’s been an attack further up north,” he finally continued. “They need all the men and weapons they can get to keep the VC under control. This includes,” and here he stopped to clear his throat loudly, a heavy frown working its way onto his face, “this includes helicopters to fly troops in and out of the area, and they’re not going to waste a damn chopper on a single fucking mutinous and insubordinate Private when they could be using it for more important things at the current moment in time.”

A silence hung in the air as the sergeant’s words sunk in. When Adam processed what had been said, he gasped sharply, making a wild grab for the sleeve of Dean’s shirt and unable to stop the smile from breaking out on his narrow features.

Clearly not believing what he was hearing, Aidan’s head flew up, the skin around his eyes tightening as he obviously suspected a trick of some kind. “Sir, I- _what_?” he stuttered out hoarsely, and Dean was surprised to see how affected he was by this information, like the Irishman wanted to believe that the sergeant was telling the truth so badly but was looking for the hidden motive. As it was, he himself was grinning softly and there was a fluttering in his stomach.

“You heard me,” McTavish growled. “And I’m not going to repeat myself. It’s not permanent, and there will be conditions, however – jobs around camp that will be rostered to you and only you; no one else will be allowed to assist you in any way possible. You will also be required to stay within the perimeters of the camp at all times, and when I leave to direct missions and patrols, you _will_ obey the officer I place in command. _Do you understand?_ ”

Nodding somewhat unsteadily in his disbelief, Aidan conveyed his understanding, adding a short and brief, “Yessir,” for good measure.

“Good.” McTavish stood still for a moment. “Then you can get started on a new latrine pit right away.”

A muscle twitched in Aidan’s jaw, and he nodded again, though the movement was stiffer this time.

“Oh, he’s gonna love that,” Adam muttered beside Dean. “Everybody hates working on the ‘shit pit’.” Dean snorted quietly at the coined term.

“Hey, at least he’s not going now,” he said, nudging the young man with his elbow gently. The beam Adam gave him could have powered an entire fucking city.

“Yeah,” he said with a sigh of happiness wrapped around his words, and in front of them, the bald soldier strode off after a curt incline of his head and a dismissive glower. “Yeah, at least Aidan’s not going.”

And when Aidan turned to give Adam an encouraging look, he met Dean’s eyes and he let a miniscule smile tug at the edges of his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that's managed to fix soldier!Aidan's mess up. I have no idea how realistic the resolution was (I mean, the availability of helicopters part was probably more realistic than forcing him to pretty much become the camp's manual labourer), but it was the best I could come up with, and there wasn't too much information I could find on the subject. So all you history buffs who may know better - that the probability of something similar happening in real life was perhaps slim (like I said: I don't know if it's true or not; I'm walking in the dark here in regards to that area) - please don't be too hard on me.
> 
> No picture links accompanying this chapter, but there will be some with the next chapter. 
> 
> Also, the name and description of Adam's girlfriend Sylvia is totally an aspect of my imagination; I have no knowledge and nor do I claim to of his real-life relationships, etc.


	7. 6 - Walking Through A Minefield Blindfolded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologise for the length of time you had to wait for this to be posted. Life got extremely busy for me, but hopefully it's all under control again. To make up for the wait, this chapter is extra long - it's actually the longest out of them all so far. (And hello, first hint of character death)
> 
> In case you didn't notice, this fic is now the first in a series. On completion of this, there will be two more shorter oneshots set in this AU - one regarding Adam, and another focusing on Aidan's life in Ireland before the war. I'm also debating the possibility of a Sergeant Armitage based fic, seeing as how he was dead before the events of this fic took place.
> 
> Another thank you to all that review and leave me wonderful comments. Your words are very much appreciated, please know that.
> 
> Thank you again to queenmab_scherzo. Her help is always valued and extremely welcome.

“I don’t get it,” Adam muttered quietly.

The young American soldier and Dean were sitting together at the entrance to Dean’s tent. Dark clouds loomed above, signalling the appearance of rain at some point later that day. The air was so thick with humidity that Dean could literally feel the moisture in it, and he was sweating despite not having undertaken any physical activity throughout the day with the exception of walking.

“What?” he asked, rubbing his hand over the lower half of his face. Mark had been kind enough to let him borrow his razor and shaving cream, and Adam had let him use his small mirror, allowing him to finally shave.

“I mean,” the solider started, “I know Aidan’s behaviour is not exactly reliable nor predictable, but even so… I’ve never seen him like this. So reserved. So withdrawn and quiet. He’s been like this ever since Sergeant McTavish told him he’d be staying yesterday.”

Dean shrugged, unable to take his eyes of the Irishman about ten metres in front of them and near the edge of the clearing. He had a shovel in his hands and was continuing to dig the new ‘shit pit’. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, the back of his shirt was completely soaked through, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Every now and then he’d let out a small grunt of exertion as his shovel tipped the dirt onto the growing pile to the side of the pit. “McTavish never said anything about it being permanent though, did he? I mean, he’s sort of been given a second chance, but how long will it last? Maybe he thinks that if he’s a bit more… I don’t know, submissive, he’ll be kept around longer.”

Adam shook his head as Aidan paused, straightening for a second to ease the strain on his back and catch his breath. His chest was rising and falling rapidly with the amount of effort he’d been putting in. “McTavish wants him gone though,” he answered. “That much is pretty obvious.”

“Perhaps he’ll keep him around for the free manual labour?” Dean suggested, half-joking, and Adam snorted with dark amusement.

“I don’t care about the whys,” he said. “I’m just glad he’s not gone.” He tugged at a tussock of grass by his feet, rolling the blades of grass in between his fingers.

Dean made a noise that could have either been in agreement or understanding. It turned into a choke, which he hastily covered with a cough when he saw Aidan set his shovel down on the side of the half-dug pit and his hands move to the buttons on the front of his shirt. The Irish soldier tugged the fabric off his shoulders, the job made more difficult by the fact that the material clung to his sweaty skin. Finally the balled-up shirt landed messily by the pile of dirt, and Aidan rolled his shoulders – now free of the restrictive khaki cloth – the muscles in his back rippling powerfully. Dean’s mouth went dry and he was sure that his face was fire-red, but his fingers yearned for his camera so he could freeze the moment in time forever.

Adam gave him a strange look. “Dean? Are you okay?”

“Fine,” the New Zealander answered huskily, waving off his concern. “Just… just choked on my own saliva.”

“Ew, that’s gross.” The American made a face of disgust.

Dean could see out the corner of his eye that Aidan had resumed his digging, and as much as he’d like to stare, he tried to restrain himself around Adam. He didn’t want to have _that_ sort of conversation with him, especially with someone who’d probably been raised with traditional views – the whole, ‘marriage before sex’ thing, and how it was to be strictly between men and women only, or else you were a sinner who found themselves in hell.

Aidan paused again, but this time he turned to face the two men. Dean couldn’t stop his eyes from roaming over his naked torso – the sheer muscle definition of his stomach and upper body that was no doubt a result of the military training he’d undergone, and the smattering of dark hair across his broad and powerful chest. He couldn’t help noticing that the Irishman wore a thin ball chain around his neck, a chain which was looped through a silver military dog tag and… A gold ring. Even from this distance it clearly looked like a wedding ring, and Dean felt his heart skip a beat and then sink rapidly as the implications of the piece of jewellery sunk in. ( _Fuck there’s a woman, of course there’s got to be a bloody fucking woman when he looks like_ that _! Stupid, so so stupid… A wife? But why wouldn’t he wear it on his finger if there was a wife? Mourning? There_ was _that family rumour- no! Stupid, so_ fucking _STUPID! Falling for a married man- what next, O’Gorman? Seriously, way to fucking go on that front, loser._ )

 “Adam,” Aidan called out. “Can- can you grab the bottle of water by my stuff back in the tent?”

Adam jumped up with an affirmative and hurried off to do what he’d been asked. Dean stared down at the ground, unable to meet the Irishman’s eyes for fear the other man would see his inflamed face.

A rumble of thunder rolled over head, and both the soldier and the photographer raised their heads to glance at the sky.

“Looks like rain,” Dean said, stupidly pointing out the obvious but needing to break the sudden uncomfortable silence that stretched between the two of them in the absence of Adam.

Turner snorted. “You don’ say?” he muttered sarcastically, but there was a small hint of amusement on his face. Another crack of thunder came, loud and unrelenting after his words, and Aidan stared off in to the distance. Adam came back shortly, water bottle in hand, and the Irish solider took it gratefully, taking a long swig before tipping his head back and pouring the rest over his face and letting the droplets slide down over his perspiring body, giving both the rectangular identification tag and the ring a bright metallic glint.

Dean couldn’t stop his mouth from dropping open, and he was sure that he’d need to wipe saliva from his chin as his face burst into flame once more. He also quickly realised he was beginning to have another problem that he needed to take care of – a stirring in his groin. Clearing his throat, the photojournalist stood, hurriedly turning away and calling out a hasty goodbye to Adam.

“Wait, where are you going?” was the confused answering call he got from the young man.

“I, uh… I… There’s some stuff I need to write up for my article,” Dean quickly lied. “I’ll catch you later though, yeah?” he added as he hurried off, threading his way through tents.

As he made his swift escape, he heard Adam say disapprovingly to Aidan, “Okay, what did you say that scared him off?” to which Aidan replied with an emphatic “ _Nothin’!_ I didn’t say anythin’!”.

And when Dean made it to the edge of the camp, he realised that if there was to be any truth to his lie, he really should have at least taken a notebook from his tent with him.

*****

It was about an hour or so that the heavens finally opened up and unleased their vengeance upon the camp of soldiers. Dean imagined that the sky was shedding tears for all the lives taken at the small Vietnamese village the other day. Aidan was still digging, now shovelling mud in the rain, and the photographer could see the pale blur of his body through the flap of one of the supply tents he’d taken refuge in. The rain hadn’t taken the edge of the humidity away however, and Dean was still sweating.

There was a flash of movement out the corner of his eye, and Dean turned his head to glimpse Adam beckoning him over from the lowered floor of a sheltered foxhole entrance. At the first sign that the rain was letting off, Dean sprinted for the foxhole, ducking his head against the cascading fall of rain and jumping down into the dryer cover. He shook his head, tiny droplets of water flicking into the air and shook out his damp shirt. He glanced at Adam’s shadowed face before staring back out at the deluge, which had only strengthened again. His bruised ribs ached from the burst of exertion, a blunt and constant ache that reminded him of his stupidity from yesterday, and he fought to regain his breath.

“How long d’you think it’ll last?” he asked as he turned back around to the young solider.

Adam shrugged. “Could be a while yet,” he answered. “These storms are unpredictable. Sometimes they last minutes, sometimes they last hours.”

“Potentially days,” came another voice, and Dean leaned around Adam to peer into the relative darkness of the back end of the foxhole, seeing the shapes of Evans’ moustached friend and his tent-mate Mark emerge in the dim light.

“You didn’t take a notebook,” Adam said, as if the thought just occurred to him.

“What?” Dean frowned.

“When you said you had stuff to write for your article,” Adam clarified. “You didn’t take a notebook from your tent with you.”

“Oh.” Dean’s mind raced as he tried to think of a viable excuse besides _the ‘murderous’ Irishman has a fucking hot body and I couldn’t handle it anymore. Oh, yeah, and he’s married too, apparently. Total dream crusher. I needed time to lick my wounds and curl up in the fetal position, but I’m sure I’ll get over it. Eventually._ “I like, I like to think things through and plot out ideas in my head before I do anything, so… a notebook isn’t really needed,” he finished weakly.

“Riiiight,” the young American soldier drew out slowly. “Of course.” There was silence. “You know, if he said anything to you- ”

Dean shook his head hurriedly. “He didn’t. Honest. I just… Like I said. I needed to plan some things out in my head.” He could tell that Adam didn’t believe him – if the look of incredulousness he was given was any indication – but thankfully nothing more was said on the matter ( _he could hardly tell him about the sudden affect that seeing that…. That_ ring _had had on him, could he?_ ).

“Move it, O’Gorman, you’re blockin’ the entrance,” came a rough Irish voice, and Dean jerked around to see Aidan standing on the edge of the foxhole and looking down. Still shirtless and absolutely drenched in rain, the soldier narrowed his eyes slightly in a glare when the New Zealander didn’t move straight away. Dean flushed and hastily retreated backwards, dropping down to sit on the cold and loose dirt by a sandbagged wall, glad that in the darkness no one could see his heated cheeks.

Aidan jumped down into the foxhole, landing heavily on his thick-soled boots before straightening, the wedding ring clinking against the dog tag as they bounced on their chain against his chest. There was an immeadiate tension that descended in the shelter between Mark and Evans’ moustached friend and the Irish soldier, but the two men didn’t say anything, and nor did Turner acknowledge the fact that they were there.

That could have been because he hadn’t noticed them, and Dean watched him surreptitiously as he dug around in one of the pockets of his pants, finally pulling out a small lighter and a very crumpled and more than slightly damp pack of cigarettes. He pulled one out before shoving the cardboard pack back into the pocket haphazardly. Placing the end between his lips, he flicked the lighter a few times to produce a flame, which illuminated his face in a warm orange glow, highlighting the glimmering ring (which the photographer was resolutely _trying_ not to look at, to no avail) and sending shadows flickering around the foxhole.

 _It won’t light_ , Dean thought to himself, not willing to say the words out loud and have his body pinned to the sandbags behind him with a glare. _It’s not going to light because it’s too damp._

But he was proved wrong. The end of the cigarette caught, and the Irish soldier let the flame on the end of the lighter die out, breathing in a lungful of smoke deeply.

“Smoking’s bad for you,” Dean said automatically, remembering something his mother had always told his visiting aunt reproachfully when she’d smoked continuously around their house. The smell of smoke and ash always clung to the walls for weeks after she left, no matter how long his mother left the windows open for.

Turner levelled a glare down at the blonde photojournalist. He plucked the burning cigarette from his mouth with his thumb and forefinger, curling his other fingers closely, and purposely blew his mouthful of smoke in Dean’s direction rebelliously. “Maybe tha’s why I do it,” he said darkly, obviously not in a good mood.

Dean frowned, waving the smoke away from his face with a flapping hand motion and coughing slightly. “Was that to prove a point?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He received a glower in return from Turner.

“Piss off,” was the muttered response as the Irishman drew in another breath of smoke, the embers at the end of the cigarette flaring to life briefly in a faint glow.

“Fine,” Dean said, an exaggerated nonchalance staining his tone blatantly. “But I’m blaming you if I die of lung cancer from second-hand smoke inhalation.”

Turner stubbornly blew another lungful of smoke in Dean’s direction, and Dean was struck with the sudden thought that maybe the soldier was doing it to get a rise out of him, that although he was in a bad mood it amused him to annoy Dean so. The New Zealander found that thought to be a rather strange one, but then again, Turner was far from normal.

A metallic clicking sounded from the back of the foxhole, and Dean swung his head around to see Mark with a lighter in his hands too.

“What?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders in a hyperbolic movement when he caught his temporary tent-mate staring. “If he can light up, so can I.” Dean snorted and rolled his eyes in defeat as Mark inhaled and handed the cigarette to Evans’ moustached friend, who copied his movements before handing the small burning stick back. Mark stretched his hand out to Dean. “Want some?” he offered.

“No, I’ve never really liked smoking,” Dean admitted, passing up the offer. “Mates say it gets better once you get past the taste of ash, but I’ve never gotten to that stage yet.” His refusal gained him another exhaled breath of smoke from Aidan, who seemed to have made it his personal mission to make sure that the blonde man inhaled as much smoke as possible, like some sort of twisted game. Arsehole, Dean thought, giving the dark-haired man who now leaned against the stacked sandbags a steady look of disapproval tinged with longing. _But he was such a good-looking arsehole_ , another part of his brain chimed in rather inconveniently.

“This is the good stuff,” Mark said. “It ain’t just your average ciggie.”

Dean resolutely shook his head, understanding his meaning clearly. “I’ve always been more of an alcohol person, to be honest.” But the scent of the marijuana was wafting towards him, unconsciously relaxing his tense muscles. God knows he could do with just a small hit to relieve the constant tension that had been coiled in his body ever since stepped foot in this God-forsaken jungle.

“Aw, c’mon, man,” Mark said.

Dean sighed. “Just a hit then,” he gave in reluctantly, leaning over to take the rolled cigarette from his tent-mate. He raised it to his mouth and inhaled shallowly before passing it back to Mark, his body sighing in relaxation as he did so.

“Brown?” Mark offered. Adam looked at him with wide deer eyes, giving the other soldier his immeadiate and obvious answer. “Don’t be such a straight-ass, man. It’s fun to rebel against the system and give it a giant ‘Fuck You’ as we salute it with our middle fingers.”

Dean gave up listening to the American, who was now babbling about freedom and rebellion and how glorious it was. The marijuana was circulating through his system, affecting him slightly. He himself had never really had anything to rebel against, which meant that he didn’t view the drugs or addiction in the same way that everybody else around him did. No, he’d had a pretty decent life, not being the type to go and make a scene about things but content to just… go with the flow. In fact, the only way he’d really rebelled had been his career decision, and that had resulted in, well… He wasn’t anti-drugs or against the recreational use of them, though – his mate’s apartment in L.A. constantly smelt of pot, and he would often indulge himself at the end of the week or even during the week (if it was a particularly bad one) by going over and smoking some as a way of relaxing and unwinding, but what he’d told Mark was true. He was really someone who enjoyed the effects of alcohol more than drugs for a seemingly inexplicable reason. Besides, Dean got ridiculously giggly and cuddly when he was high, and he really didn’t think that Sergeant McTavish would appreciate his transformation into a human leech at all, hence the sparing and shallow inhalation.

The rain drummed down continuously on the tarpaulin that was stretched across as a roof, and it was starting to collect in the middle, creating a large dip. It was already dampening the dirt at the mouth of the foxhole with the steady drips that hung down from the edge of the material, and the noise of the rain hitting the tarp was beginning to become deafening.

Turner was now blowing smoke rings, and Adam was huddled on the ground opposite Dean. His knees were raised, and his thin arms were wrapped around them while he pillowed his head on his forearms. He glanced up and an unreadable look passed between him and Aidan, before Aidan lowered himself roughly to the ground beside his friend with a heavy sigh and another strong puff of smoke at the New Zealander. Dean tried so hard to ignore that little golden band that lay against his chest but his eyes kept straying to the jewellery with lingering glances. Mark had fallen silent, and he and the moustached soldier were sharing the marijuana, passing it back and forth between them.

More smoke rings blown at Dean got his attention.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he accused Aidan rather bitterly with furrowed brows, who only shrugged and paused to lift his diminishing cigarette from his lips with his curious curled hand motion to flick ash into the dirt.

A loud and sharp crack of thunder overhead made all the men look up, and Mark giggled to himself. Dean wrinkled his nose at the growing stench of smoke in the hole, and echoed Adam’s sigh with a quite one of his own, resigning himself to waiting out the storm in a foxhole with the four soldiers – two of which appeared to have become twittering five year olds, another who excluded himself from group conversation and interaction in the presence of others who weren’t his friends, and the other who had taken it upon himself to determinedly see that Dean left the foxhole with lung cancer.

*****

The rain cleared late that afternoon – around sunset – and with it came some news. Remnants of the VC group that had attacked up north had been spotted up near the border of the territories that the squad was supposed to patrol, and after a short discussion over the airwaves with another commander, Sergeant McTavish had decided to lead a patrol to the sighted area at first light tomorrow morning. On the way they would rendezvous with another patrol to combine their resources and manpower to provide the best possible chance of success – particularly if it came to an attack. All the soldiers but four would leave with McTavish, and this time, Adam was one of the men who would be leaving. He didn’t look overly thrilled at the news – in fact, probably the opposite – especially because under the aging sergeant’s conditions, Aidan ( _that_ fucking _ring;_ Dean couldn’t get the image out of his head) was included in those four remaining soldiers and would be forced to remain back at camp. Dean was also ordered to stay, and the photojournalist didn’t know whether because it had been because of his reaction to the violence and inhumaneness that had been delivered to the Vietnamese village, the fact that he too had also protested against orders (although his response to the sanction of killing the small Vietnamese child hadn’t really been arguing against orders; more like the questioning of morals and principles while expressing disbelief) or that the sergeant didn’t seem to like him all that much. He wanted to make the comment that he was supposed to be exposing himself out here so that he could do what he was supposed to – take photographs for his article – but he’d seen McTavish blow up at Turner, and he really didn’t want the same fury directed at him.

It was yet another sleepless night for Dean. It started raining again just after dark, and there was a small hole in the roof of his tent that had been leaking water in all afternoon. Thankfully none of his equipment was damaged (it was all protected in bags and cases), but his clothes and a large area of his mattress were now utterly soaked through. He managed to curl up on a dry area of his mattress under slightly-damp blankets, but the wind picked up resiliently and whistled and moaned while the hot thunder still reverberated in the darkness. Dean had never been one to place a lot of value on materialistic objects, but at that moment, more than anything, he yearned for the shelter and (reasonable) comfort of his dingy apartment or, fuck - anywhere that _wasn’t_ overly exposed to the weather and force of Mother Nature as that bloody tent was.

But if he’d had a sleepless night (damn all the fucking images of that wedding ring around Turner’s neck that paraded across the back of his eyelids), it was nothing compared to how poor Adam looked the next morning. The young man emerged from his tent white-faced and silent, his lips tightened in a way that made them nearly colourless. His eyes were terribly bloodshot, and they were looped by thick bruise-coloured circles.  Turner didn’t leave his side throughout the short time frame before they left camp, managing to still stay close to the American even with all the added responsibilities McTavish had given him around the camp. Adam seemed grateful for the reassuring presence of his Irish shadow.

There was a confusing twist in Dean’s stomach when he discovered that the sergeant would be placing Evans in charge of the camp in his absence, the soldier obviously held in high regard by the bald man. The blonde photographer wasn’t quite sure how to feel about this brief change in command. This was mainly due to the fact that the tall Private had both severely threatened him and expressed his dislike for the New Zealander on more than one occasion, and the confounding factor of the small show of decency yesterday, when Evans had possibly prevented Dean’s untimely death by stepping in and prohibiting Williams from continuing his beating. There was a mentality behind the Private’s actions that Dean didn’t understand, but he was confident that they hadn’t been out of sympathy or friendship.

The selection of soldiers left shortly after dawn, led by a determined Sergeant McTavish and complete with a shaking and incredibly withdrawn Adam. Dean stood nearby Turner as he watched the group of men leave, and he saw the Irishman visibly relax when a friendly soldier slipped into a position next to Adam and begin to make a pleasant but undoubtedly encouraging conversation with the young man. The khaki-clad soldiers disappeared from view shortly after entering the outskirts of the surrounding forest. Dean’s stomach roiled with anxiousness, and he desperately hoped that the Americans didn’t encounter any Viet Cong or other dangers on their patrol. Sensing a presence near his elbow, Dean flinched, whipping around violently.

Turner stared at him in a way that was unreadable, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to read the blonde’s reaction. He folded his arms across his chest, the green-grey material of his shirt straining tightly over his biceps. The position was a defensive one, and the photographer watched the soldier’s face harden slightly.

“What?” Dean snapped, his words coming out more clipped than usual. Beads of sweat began to prickle their way down the inside of his arms, and Dean tried to convince himself that it was the humidity that was making him sweat continuously.

The Irishman’s shoulders were seized by tension. “I’m making you nervous,” he said, and his emotions were incomprehensible due to the flat tone that he spoke with.

“What?” Dean asked again, although this time, his voice had hit a higher register, turning the word into a pathetic attempt at a falsely innocent _are-you-accusing-_ me _?_ type answer. “Don’t be ridiculous. I just… You snuck up on me.”

“You’re sweating,” Turner said gruffly. “You’re jumpy. And you won’t look me in the eye.”

Dean’s opened his mouth to voice a vehement protestation, but then realised that while the dark-haired man had been speaking he’d trained his eyes on the clods of dirt by his feet. He closed his mouth slowly, unable to think of anything to say.

A shadow passed over Aidan’s face. “Don’ I at least get to know what I’ve done?” And maybe it was just the blonde photojournalist’s imagination, but he sounded a little sad and confused.

“You didn’t do anything!” Dean threw back, trying not to wince when the memory of the gold wedding band around Turner’s neck slid tauntingly into his mind. “It’s this fucking war – it’s making me jumpy.”

Turner laughed sarcastically, rocking back on his heels slightly as he ducked his head. “Somehow,” he said, “I don’ believe you.” His voiced took on a steely edge, and Dean watched as the Irish soldier subtly raised himself up to his full height and darkened his gaze, his body language taking on an imperceptibly threatening air. “If you want me to piss off, then all you had to do was say so. Don’ be a bastard and keep dicking about. Because then you’ll just be like all the others, an’ I really t’hought that maybe you weren’t like them.”

It was a metaphorical slap in the face, and Dean felt it just as much as if Turner had actually physically struck him.

With one last looked that bordered between his most severe glare and something that showed a little bit of hurt, the Irish soldier began to stride off, shouldering roughly past the New Zealander. Finally though, Dean’s brain caught up with the rest of his body and he flung his hand out, making a hasty grab for Turner’s arm, calling softly, “Aidan, wait!”

The immeadiate stiffness that rolled into the dark-haired man’s body was frightening as he completely froze to a standstill, only his head moving around to stare wide-eyed at the shorter photographer. Various emotions twitched across Aidan’s face, the most prominent being surprise and confusion. “Did you just- ” he began lowly.

“Just,” Dean continued, “wait. Listen to me, okay? I wasn’t lying when I said the whole…” He waved his free hand around emphatically, “war thing was making me jumpy. I’ve barely had four hours of straight sleep since I got here and after seeing what,” here he lowered his voice, fervently looking around in the hope that Evans wasn’t lurking nearby and listening to their conversation, “what those men _did_ to the village… Fucking hell, you _don’t_ get to give me a hard time and act like a pissy bastard if I’m off with you because I’m _trying_ to understand and come to terms with all that’s going on out here. I’m doing my best. So cut me some friggin’ slack and _stop_ acting like it’s all about you.” Dean exhaled heavily, suddenly wanting to retract his last few words. He braced himself for a reaction from Turner – a punch, a snarled mess of tangled threats and replies clothed in a thick foreign accent. Anything really. But the phrase ‘expect the unexpected’ had almost been written with the Irish Private in mind.

The only thing he did was to drop his head from Dean’s blue gaze that was sparked with icy defiance to glance at where the blonde’s hand was wrapped around the lower end of his forearm, just above his wrist. “Let go of me,” he said hoarsely. Dean didn’t move. “O’Gorman, let _go_ of me,” he reiterated, his voice a bit more sharply edged. Dean did, releasing his hold and slowly backing away. With one last tortured frown directed at the blonde, Aidan left, ducking his head with the weight of Dean’s words and retaining the tautness of rigid muscles in his body.

Dean blew out a surprise puff of air, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples with the pads of his fingers, screwing up his eyelids and creating popping black spots in his vision when the ever-present image of the wedding ring around Turner’s neck materialised in his mind once more.

*****

Unlike the lie Dean had told Adam yesterday, he actually did spend the morning writing up notes and drafts for the article accompanying his photographs in the safety of the foxhole they’d sheltered from the rain in yesterday. The tarpaulin cover stretched over the sandbags provided a welcome relief from the sun that had decided to show its face that morning. The dirt floor of the foxhole was some of the only ground in the camp that was dry, with the rest of it being turned into a muddy slush that had yet to be baked into the hard earth that it normally was by the sun.

Dean was alone, but he didn’t mind. The few remaining soldiers had scattered themselves around the camp and God only knew what Turner was doing.

_That fucking ring…_

Dean let his head thump back against the sandbags behind him. He knew he was crazy for obsessing over the small golden band – fuck, he was crazy for getting his hopes up in the first place – but somehow the revelation that Aidan had a woman back home – wherever that was now – hurt more because of the walls he was beginning to break down with the Irishman. The fact that he’d made him _smile_ , for one. To have the man to be married felt like a betrayal, and that was the strangest thing of all. All these peculiar and indescribable feelings had risen up inside of Dean, feelings that he didn’t know what to do with or where they’d come from. He felt like he was walking through a minefield blindfolded – which was a fitting analogy, considering where he currently was.

That particular train of thought made him think of Adam and how he was faring at the moment. Dean hoped that for the poor soldier’s sake McTavish’s patrol didn’t run into any Viet Cong or a situation like the village – anything that required the firing of a gun or the throwing of a grenade, really. And he hoped that the other men were doing their best to make the young American’s customary anxiety go away the best they could.

Sighing to himself, the New Zealander tried to put away his thoughts as he stood and clambered out of the foxhole. One of the remaining soldiers was lying on the sandbagged roof of another foxhole that was situated nearby. His gun was sprawled at an angle near his head and he was reading some type of book or magazine. A cigarette dangled languidly out of the corner of his mouth, and he relished his hold on his magazine every now and then to flick ash off the tip and to blow out puffs of air. The soldier caught Dean staring at him and gave him the barest acknowledgement by the employment of a tense nod before he returned to his reading. Dean could understand why. He was still considered an outsider, the fact made all together worse by the associations and friendships he’d established out here in the jungle. The New Zealander didn’t ever think that the other soldiers would accept him the way Adam had, and he suddenly realised that he didn’t really want them to. They could alienate him all they liked – just so long as they remained civil to him. It would make things easier in the long run. Especially if…

No, Dean wasn’t going to think about that. It would be best if he just did his job and left Vietnam, although he knew that he’d be leaving part of him behind – that part being the naïve innocence he’d always had. He was a changed man, and though he wasn’t as changed as the rest of the soldiers were, Dean knew that he’d never be the same.

His feet began to lead him around the campsite. Where they were taking him, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think that he particularly cared. He drifted mindlessly through the centre of the camp, silent as one of the ghostly Victor Charlies hidden in the many layers of jungle foliage. He came to an abrupt stop in the shadow of the tent he shared with Mark, pausing to throw his notebook and pencil carelessly on top of his bed. He stepped back and raised his arms above his head, stretching out his cramped and sore muscles. Letting his arms fall back against his sides, Dean exhaled heavily, and was in the process of rubbing the back of his neck when he glanced up and saw Aidan sitting in front of the tent he shared with Adam. The Irish soldier was smoking lazily, and though he was wearing a shirt, it was unbuttoned in the humidity. He wore a soft expression on his face - a gentle yet sad smile – an expression that made Dean long to have known the enigma prior to the war. One of the dark-haired man’s hands held his cigarette in the curious curled way of his, and the other… the other held a photograph.

Dean frowned, contemplating the meaning of the scene in front of him. His mind was busy speculating about the importance of the picture the Irishman held. It if was of a family member, that only added interest to the rumours about the man killing his family. No, it seemed unlikely. It was probably… Dean’s heart sunk with the realisation. Probably his wife, the woman that had once placed that golden band Turner wore around his neck on his finger.

As he remained in his hiding spot behind the tent, the photojournalist watched the soldier carefully run his finger over the photo, as if to stroke the face of someone. Then he tucked the photograph back into the pocket of his pants and stood up, stubbing out his cigarette with the grainy heel of his boot. With one last exhale of smoke, the Irishman strode off towards the centre of the camp, bunkers and tents soon blocking him from view.

He didn’t notice the photograph flutter out of his pocket and land daintily on the ground, saved from the ruin of mud by managing to nestle itself in a clump of grass.

The strong curiosity streak that Dean tried to bury deep within him most of the time flared up, and before he knew it, he was darting forward to pluck the photograph from its resting place after a cautious glance in the direction that Aidan had wandered off in. Then he was staring down at the photograph.

A luxuriously beautiful woman smiled widely up at him, her eyes laughing as she twisted a piece of her long dark hair around the index finger of the hand that tried to mask her smile. The black-and-white print of the photo suited the woman’s flawless and pale skin, adding to her beauty. And there it was. The clincher. An engagement ring wrapped smugly around her finger.

Dean swallowed hard, tearing his eyes away from the beauty. In an extreme effort to deny what his eyes saw, he turned the picture over in his hands with the mentality of ‘if-I-pretend-I-haven’t-seen-it-then-I’ll-pretend-the-image-isn’t-forever-imbedded-in-my-brain’. That was when he saw the writing.

Looped and graceful, it flew across the back of the photographic paper effortlessly. _My darling Aidan,_ it read. _I miss you so much, and am constantly counting down the days that remain until we can see each other again. All my love, Brigid._

Fuck, his wife had a name. _Of course she had a name._ Dean didn’t want to know it. It only made her more real.

Hot waves of disappointment flooded into his stomach and welled behind his eyes inexplicably. Dean swallowed hard and tried not to crumple the photograph into a scrunched ball into his hands, although that was his first reaction. But he didn’t think that Turner would take too kindly to having his wife’s photo ruined when it was probably the only one he had out here. Taking a shuddering breath, he glanced up, his eyes darting cautiously around his surroundings in an attempt to reassure himself that the brooding Irishman wasn’t about to appear suddenly from behind a tent or foxhole. He wasn’t, and slightly reassured, Dean hurriedly crossed to Adam and Aidan’s tent and lay the picture of Aidan’s wife out on the first pillow he saw, half-expecting that Turner would be staring him down when he stood up. Again, Turner didn’t appear, but that didn’t stop the sick feeling from devouring Dean’s insides.

His legs carried him back to his tent in a stumbling and unsteady gait. _Fuck_. At least with the ring he could pretend that it didn’t exist, pretend that it didn’t matter because it was hidden beneath Aidan’s shirt most of the time. But a face and a name… They were different things. They cemented the reality that Dean tried to refuse to believe. He was helplessly trapped in his newly-developed feelings for the enigmatic Irishman – and the erratic nature of the soldier alone should have been enough of a deterrent, enough of a sign that any relationship they had would be a fantasy played out in Dean’s mind in the dark.

Private Evans materialised in front of him from behind a large bunker. His features were pulled heavily downwards in a frown, and he opened his mouth to talk to the photojournalist. “O’Gorman,” he said, a touch of sharp-edged steel in his voice. “O’Gorman, we need to talk.”

Dean blindly pushed past him. “Not now,” he said. “I can’t, I- not _now_.” He didn’t give Evans a chance to reply properly, but he did hear the tall man calling his name out after him. All the New Zealander wanted to do was curl up in the shade of his tent, wallow in his self-pit and maybe try and steal back a few hours of lost sleep. And _no_ , he was not going to cry himself to sleep like a bloody twelve year old girl.

He jerked to a halt. “What the- ” he began, but Aidan stood up from where he’d been sitting at the entrance of Dean and Mark’s tent, cutting him off.

“You weren’ here,” the Irishman said softly. “I jus’ thought- I jus’ thought I’d wait for you.”

Dean’s mouth closed sharply. Aidan stared down at the ground as he waited for the smaller blonde man to react, reply – anything. His shirt was still unbuttoned and hung loosely, the sun casting an angled shadowed across the planes of his abdomen. The wedding ring gave a golden wink.

Dean didn’t say anything for fear of blurting out his failed fantasies. Aidan risked a cautious glance at the other man when he stayed silent. He sighed, and it was the weighted sigh of someone with the world on their shoulders. He gently teased his bottom lip with his teeth, pulling it back into his mouth before letting it go.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said, and Dean nearly had to strain his ears. As it was, his eyes widened substantially, not quite believing what the soldier had said. “I shouldn’t have jus’ assumed that- ”

“No you bloody well shouldn’t have,” Dean bit in. Aidan looked down at the ground, crestfallenly wounded at the New Zealander’s outburst. “Just because others assume things about you, does _not_ mean that you have to assume things about others. I would have thought that you of all people would have known that.”

The Irishman’s head shot up. “I’m sorry!” he said again, though this time it was more emphatically. Something stirred in his dark eyes. “I was worried about Adam – I _am_ worried about Adam – and then you fucking _flinched_ when I approached you, and you had this look on your face… and I thought… I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you – but you were there, and I couldn’t…”

“I was the first convenient verbal punching bag, is that what you’re saying?” Dean shot back bitterly. This wasn’t supposed to be happening like this. They weren’t supposed to keep fighting. _Why_ hadn’t he just accepted the damn apology and moved on? “Fucking hell, Aidan, that’s such a shitty excuse!”

The soldier looked at the blonde carefully. “You did it again,” he said quietly.

Dean huffed impatiently. “Did _what_ again?” But Aidan didn’t elaborate.

“What do you want me to say, O’Gorman?” He spread his arms wide in helplessness – and it suddenly struck Dean that this was the first sign of weakness he had seen from the Irishman. Oh, and he really shouldn’t have done that… Dean tried to stop himself from licking his lips as the khaki shirt was pulled back, exposing the lean muscles strung across Aidan’s chest and abdomen, swallowing instead and ducking his head. “You fucking _confuse_ me, and I don’t know how to act around you! I just…” He broke off, pivoting slightly to run his fingers through his hair. He closed his brown eyes and sighed.

“What do you mean I confuse you?” Dean asked quietly. He knew he was stepping into unchartered territory here - but wasn’t he always with Aidan? 

The Irish soldier turned and looked at the photographer, and his face was so open and full of emotion that it hurt to look at. He held Dean’s gaze for a few seconds before breaking away and shaking his head. “It don’ matter,” he said quietly.

“No, no you brought it up,” Dean said, and like a dog with a bone, he wasn’t going to give this thread of conversation up.

But he had to. A sharp electric crackle of the radio got both men’s attention, even more so when the voice calling over the airwaves was unrecognisable. A medivac helicopter, asking if the site was secure for landing. Aidan’s face drained of blood in a heartbeat, and a soldier yelled for Evans. The Irishman took off in a dead sprint towards the camp’s main radio, and Dean was frozen to the spot with endless blurred scenarios filtering through a roll of film in his mind. But the only thing he could think of was Adam, Adam, Adam, _Adam Adam AdamAdamAdamAdam, no God, please not Adam, don’t let it be Adam._

Then he was running after the Irish Private.

By the time he joined Aidan at the camp radio, the other remaining soldiers had already crowded around, Evans talking into the machine. He finished speaking – asking about the need for the landing – and waited. Dean’s heart was pounding in his ears, vibrating loudly through his body with nerves as he waited with the other men for a response. Aidan was like an immovable stone, his face shut off and completely devoid of all emotion – unlike how he’d been with Dean just a few minutes ago. Dean’s hands were trembling, so he shoved them awkwardly into his pockets. The radio spewed static again and the transmission came through that there’d been reports of conflict, resulting in a severe and possibly fatal injury to one member of the patrol squad. As there was apparently no open area for a landing due the extremely dense jungle and forest, the medivac was going to have to rendezvous with the patrol at their base camp in order to collect the injured soldier. They’d be there in twenty minutes. The operator didn’t name the injured man though, and Dean didn’t need to see the twitching muscle in Turner’s jaw to know who he thought was the victim. It was the logical answer, he knew, especially when compared to the other soldiers, but he tried to convince himself otherwise as much as possible.

Twenty minutes was a long time, the New Zealander couldn’t help but to think. Especially if the injuries were severe enough that they could be fatal. The returning patrol could be anywhere, and Dean didn’t like to think about the chances of survival. Evans finished the transmission with the helicopter, and there was a strained silence. Not one of the men said anything. Evans paused a few seconds with his head bowed before he began to try and get in contact with the patrol via the portable radio that the radio operator carried on his back. He called out numerous times, asking for a response, but the only answer was the empty static echoing back at them.

“They could be anywhere,” the soldier who’d been reading the magazine said, his voice hoarse in the tense silence.

“If they were attacked, there’s a good chance that they could be being followed back here. I wouldn’t put it past them Victor Charlies,” Evans said. Dean closed his eyes and prayed that that wasn’t the case. He suddenly felt extremely exposed and the wish that he’d refused this assignment started up once more in his mind. “Tom, you should gather your weapons. I want you stationed in that north-most foxhole. That’s the most dense area, and if they’re after cover, then that’s where those fucking gooks’ll go.”

The soldier with the magazine who’d spoken previously nodded, and he turned around to collect his gun and take up his watch.

“Anderson,” Evans began to say, to the other soldier, but he was stopped by the previous soldier, Tom, who’d frozen in place.

“What the fuck…?” he murmured, and then all of a sudden: “Luke! Fucking Christ, it’s _them_!”

The other men spun around rapidly, panic tinged with worry working its way onto Evans’ face as he leapt to his feat hastily. A shadow had been moving within the edge of the forest, and it now burst through into the clearing, revealing itself to be the other soldiers in the squad. Dean could recognise Mark as one of the men that streamed out in front, but then his heart beat faded as he saw a large and awkward shape stagger out of the forest towards the middle of the group.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Anderson swore. “Are they being followed?”

Dean could sense Turner stiffen behind him as the large shape became distinguishable now that it’d gotten closer. He could discern four men – two at the front and two at the back – carrying a body between them. The back two soldiers held the man’s legs, running in a half crouch, while the front two men supported the injured soldier’s torso and shoulders. The man’s head hung limply from his neck, his arms outstretched – like a picture of the crucifixion. Blood stained the fibres of his shirt an ugly rust colour in a large patch across his torso, and Dean could see that the man was pale. Turner was a coiled spring, an unpinned grenade just waiting to explode. The group of men grew closer, and the photojournalist could now make out that the soldier’s right foot was bootless, a white cloth patched with red swaddling the limb. A bandage was around his head, covering most of his identifiable features, but the closer the men got, the more the soldiers who had remained at camp could recognize the figure. The sun was doing its best to blind him, resulting in an awkward squint, but even through his eyelashes, Dean could see the man was-

“ _Shit_ , no, no, not him,” Evans moaned painfully. “ _Barnie!_ ” He staggered heavily, then pushed himself forward to meet the arriving group.

As Evans drew level with the returning men, Dean spotted something. “Look!” He pushed Turner’s thick shoulder to get his attention. “There, in front of Sergeant McTavish, supporting the guy with the bandage around his arm!”

With a harsh gasp of air sucked into his lungs, Turner cast his eyes to where the blonde man pointed and released the tension in his body with a brutally sharp exhale. Adam looked shaken, and rightfully so, but other than that he seemed to be fine, helping the soldier next to him by taking as much of his weight as his thin frame would allow. The men began to mill around each other, Anderson and Tom immediately attaching themselves to their friends and comrades who’d left them behind that morning. Aidan was by Adam’s side in an instant, and Dean watched as the young American gave his friend an unconvincing but shaky smile, which was nothing more than a jerky twitch of his lips.

Evans, meanwhile, had reached the side of his injured moustached friend, anxiously grabbing on to one of his outstretched arms. “What the fuck happened? Is he okay? Barnie? Barnie? Oh fuck, oh shit…” Panic had crept into his voice and was now staining his face, which was as bloodless as Barnie’s. “What _happened?!_ ”

“Punji trap,” one of the soldier’s carrying the soldier emitted with a grunt, fighting to keep control of his hold of the man he carried. “Fucked up his leg and ankle. Then them fuckin’ gooks got us on the way back. It was an ambush – the friggin’ jungle’s so dense. They went for the injured one.”

Sergeant McTavish strode past and into the centre of the camp, once again assuming control. “Quick, let’s put Thompson down. It will be easier to try and slow the blood loss.”

The injured Private stirred slightly as his body was lowered. “L-Luke?” he stammered quietly, groaning as he was jerked uncomfortably.

Evans moved into place by his friend’s head. “I’m here, it’s okay. The choppers’ll be soon – they’ll save you.”

“Luke,” Barnie croaked again. He was lowered to the ground, and Evans kneeled on the ground, assuming a position that allowed him to support the upper half of Barnie’s body. He cradled the man to his chest, grasping Barnie’s left arm tightly with his fingers and clutching his head to his chest with his other hand. McTavish was on the radio, demanding to know the whereabouts of the medivac, and a small circle of soldiers had gathered at a respectful distance from the dying soldier. Because Dean knew he was dying, there was no doubt about that.

The soldier gave a choked cough, small bubbles of blood beginning to form at the edges of his mouth. Though the other men had tried to stem the bleeding from the moustached man’s abdomen with heavy layers of bandages below his shirt, it was still flowing quick enough to potentially kill him before the medical helicopter arrived. A blonde young man knelt down beside the two soldiers. Dean guessed that he had some medical experience, however basic it may have been, because he pressed his hands to Barnie’s abdomen and attempted to slow the man’s loss of blood enough to make a difference.

“H-hey… Luke…” Barnie was muttering. “We did good together, yeah?”

“Yeah, Barnie,” Evans whispered. Emotion fogged his voice thickly. “We did good. But you’ll be okay – you’ll see. You’ll go away for a bit to recuperate, and then you’ll come back and it will be you and me again. Just you wait and see. The choppers’ll be here soon.”

“You’ll tell my girl I love her?” Barnie continued hoarsely. “And my kid? Fuck, we were going to have a kid, Luke.”

Evans was openly crying now, two glassy tear tracks navigating their way through the dirt crusted on his cheeks. He heaved a shuddering breath. None of the other men spoke a word. “I won’t have to, buddy. You’ll do it yourself. You’ll make it through this- make it through this shitty war and you can tell her – and your kid – yourself.”

“No,” Barnie’s voice was getting softer and softer, and Evans tightened his hold on his friend substantially.  “Don’t fuck me around. I know I’m going.” His breathing was getting shallower, the time between small gasping intakes of air getting shorter. “I wonder if the kid will look like me? Have my eyes?” The only sound was of Evans crying. “Promise me you’ll tell my girl I love her, Luke,” Barnie reiterated with extreme effort.

“I promise,” whispered the dark-haired man.

“Christ, where’s the fucking _medivac_?” McTavish swore into radio in the background, cutting through the scene that felt like it was pulled straight from a horror movie. That was the only way Dean could describe it. He was watching a man die in front of him and there wasn’t a single thing he could do about it.

Barnie’s eyes stared upwards at his friend, but they were slowly beginning to cloud over. His eyelids slipped lower and lower.

“No.” Evans jolted Barnie’s body slightly in alarm. “No, don’t you dare, _don’t you fucking_ _dare_ close your eyes, Barnie Thompson. You’re not giving up. Just hang in there a bit longer, the helicopter will be here, don’t you dare, I swear to God- you can’t leave me, you can’t leave me here all alone!”

“Luke,” came the last breath. “You can’t let it beat you. Don’t let the war beat you. …Luke- ”

“Oh, God, _no_ ,” Evans moaned. His voice rose in terror when Barnie didn’t respond, his body flopping slightly as his muscles lost their tension. The blonde soldier kneeling beside the two men sat back on his heels in defeat. Evans clutched the moustached man to him, as if by pressing him close enough to his chest he could share his life force and resurrect the man. “No, _Barnie, no!_ ” He lifted his head to the sky in a howl of sheer pain and agony, before he curled over, slotting his face into the crook of Barnie’s lax neck. He was muttering incomprehensibly to himself and to his dead friend, but as a wave of lightheaded-ness and severe sympathy crawled up Dean’s body, he swore he heard the words, “Those bastards, those fucking bastards. I’ll kill them, I’ll fucking kill them, rip their heads off with my bare hands, I swear to God…”

The rest of the men bowed their heads in silence and respect as Evans kept sputtering out shoulder-heaving sobs, and a few of them sank to the ground slowly. Dean tore his eyes from a perfect depiction of the tragic realism of war in front of him, gradually casting them around until he found Adam and Aidan. The young American soldier was white-faced and shaking, crying silently into Aidan’s shoulder. The Irishman had an arm wrapped around Adam’s thin shoulders, and he looked up when he felt Dean’s gaze brush over him. His face was a churn of unreadable emotion but he met Dean’s blue eyes unflinchingly as Evans let out an animalistic wail of grief, and the photojournalist knew that he was thinking how easily the roles could have been reversed - how easily it could have been Adam’s body that was being cried over. The thought sent electric shivers of dread and horror tingling through the New Zealander’s spine, and he turned away.

*****

They had to pry the body from Evans’ arms, and even then, it took three men to hold him back while the medivac heaved its clunking body into the sky, bearing a weary soldier on his final journey.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. *coughs* That should shake things up a bit.
> 
> Photographs I used within this chapter:
> 
> 1\. ['One of the remaining soldiers was lying on the sandbagged roof of another foxhole...'](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/58558605426/source-unknown-one-of-the-remaining-soldiers#notes)  
> 2\. [Punji traps](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/58558973000/source-vietnamwarera-im-pretty-sure-punji#notes)  
> 3\. ['The man's head hung limply from his neck, his arms outstretched - like a picture of the crucifixion.'](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/58559147404/source-dean-ogorman-dean-could-discern-four#notes)  
> 4\. ['He cradled the man to his chest...'](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/58559607929/source-dean-ogorman-he-was-lowered-to-the#notes)  
> 5\. [Private Barnie Thompson](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/58560031349/source-dean-ogorman-evans-moustached-friend#notes)


	8. 7 - Words Once Of Worth/The Harsh Reality That We Live In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even begin to say how sorry I am that I let it go this long without an update. I had hoped to get it finished in the holidays before term 4 started, but then real life got in the way with last-minute assignments and exams, etc. The good news is that I'm finished now, so hopefully updates will come a lot more quicker. 
> 
> Thanks, as always, goes to [Mab](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenmab_scherzo/pseuds/queenmab_scherzo).

The man was a lonely silhouette against the early dawn sky.

A rustle of clothes behind Dean signalled the appearance of another man lowering himself to the dirt, but Dean didn’t look away from the sight in front of him.

“They say he refuses to sleep alone, and that he forced Marshall to swap tents with him. Apparently he can’t bear the silence,” Mark said.

Dean refrained from telling his own tent-mate that he had no idea who the soldier he’d just named was. Instead, he said, “Yeah, well, you can’t blame him,” and continued to stare at Evans.

“If he was smart,” Mark started after a while, “he wouldn’t have gotten attached to anyone.”

The photojournalist frowned. “What?” He whipped his head around to stare at the soldier, who only shrugged.

“It’s easier that way. Then, when someone does die, it doesn’t fuck you up.”

Dean was silent, trembling at the bluntness of Mark’s words. “How can you say that though?” he asked. “I mean, surely it’d be the opposite – surely having a mate out here would help you rather than hinder you, y’know…?” His voice trailed off as Mark shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly, standing by his opinion. “I make acquaintances, and that’s enough to get me by. Enough to keep the insanity at bay. It’s a harsh reality, but it’s the one we live in.” He sighed heavily, then flicked his eyes back up to the New Zealander. “A soldier’s only real friends out here are the drugs that ease his tormented mind.”

Dean heaved a shuddering breath, a wash of empathy for soldiers who had trouble coping upon returning home sliding through his body with the force of a tidal wave.

“And if you were smart,” Mark continued, “you’d stop that friendship you got goin’ there with Brown. Men like him? They’re the first to go. And it’s others like the bastard of an Irishman who go next. Too co-dependent. Too martyr-y. They got nothin’ left, so they off themselves on a patrol.”

A cold shiver of fear shook the photographer to his bones, and he had to tighten his jaw to stop himself from verbally retaliating. Metres away, Evans stared blankly off into the line of trees through which the broken patrol had burst through late yesterday, almost like he was expecting Barnie to burst through the forest fringe at any time, alive and smiling. A rolled cigarette dangled from his lips, the dying embers signalling the end of the cylindrical stick, but the soldier either didn’t notice nor care as he hugged his knees to his chest.

Mark broke the silence that stretched between them like a tightrope precariously strung across a canyon with a stinging clap on Dean’s shoulder. “Just some advice to think about,” he said indifferently, rising and moving off to where other soldiers had started rousing themselves from their tents.

Dean stood himself too, after a few more minutes, meaning to make a few much-needed notes for his article. His feet were firmly planted to the spot however, like thick tree roots had cracked through the crust of mud and dirt and wound themselves around his ankles in an attempt at a loving and possessive gesture, holding him in that one place. When he finally eased movement back into his stiffened legs, his bones filled with the weariness of someone three times his age, it was hard to convince himself to not turn back and study the lone figure over his shoulder. And when he eventually reached his tent, it wasn’t his notebook and pencil that his fingers grabbed, it was his camera. Dean’s legs had disconnected from his brain, and involuntarily carried him back to his position. His hands moved of their own accord, and although both his mind and morality found capturing someone else’s grief perverted and unnecessary, his finger pressed the button like the trigger of a gun, sealing the deed.

Dean couldn’t tear his eyes away from the lonely soldier in front of him, keeping watch for a friend that would never come.

*****

Unable to stomach breakfast due to the memories of death replaying on a loop in his mind’s eye, the blonde New Zealander pushed through the early morning bustle of the small camp with the intention of cornering Aidan and interrogating him about his admission from the previous day before the static transmission had interrupted them. The soldier had seemingly manifested into a ghost however, and Dean was only successful in discovering a quiet and withdrawn Adam, who haunted the sparse periphery of the camp. He appeared unwilling to engage in much conversation, so Dean sat his body down beside him in the name of company.

“It’s not the most graphic death I’ve seen.”

Adam spoke suddenly and softly, causing Dean to turn his head in surprise. The young American shook his head, staring blankly at the ground while he wrung his hands in his lap. “I’ve seen people blown up by landmines – lose half their bodies, or their legs and arms. But it was worse because of how Luke reacted. And I can’t- ” He broke off, his voice cracking like dry plaster. Dean thought that the soldier was just as fragile too, in his current state of mind, and he wondered where the soldier’s Irish friend was; Adam clearly needed his comfort.

Not knowing what else to do, Dean slipped a cautious arm around his friend’s shoulders, and Adam welcomed the touch, leaning into it with a choked gasping sound.

“It could have been me,” Adam whispered. “It could have been me that died in Aidan’s arms yesterday.”

“But it wasn’t,” Dean broke in quickly, not liking where the conversation was heading. It made him feel nervous about his own life out here in the jungle, and a large hand clenched his insides in its fist, making him feel like he was going to be sick. The photojournalist still couldn’t get the animalistic sound that had ripped its way out of Evans mouth after Barnie’s final breath out of his head.

After some time, Adam pulled away, wiping tears from his eyes that Dean hadn’t even noticed. He cleared his throat, trying to squeeze his emotions back into his body in order to contain them.

“We, um, we should get mail from home today,” he said, trying to change the subject. “Maybe my parents… maybe Sylvia will have written.” The young man’s face lit up at the prospect, and he fingered the edge of the girl’s photograph that poked out of his pocket. Then he seemed to notice Dean smiling at him and blushed.

The photographer bumped their shoulders together lightly, still smiling at Adam. “Hey,” he said softly. “I’ve got stuff to do for my article, but if you need me, come and find me, yeah?”

Adam gave a wry twitch of his lips in an attempt to smile. “Yeah, alright,” he replied quietly. “I was going to try and write a letter to Sylvia, anyway.” He tried to pull off a nonchalant air but failed. Dean was kind enough not to call him on it, pushing himself to his feet with one last comforting smile. Walking back through the camp the way he’d come, a quick glance out the corner of his told him that Evans still hadn’t moved from his stone-still position of loneliness and grief. Dean hesitated, his stride faltering as he eyed the man who had tormented him when he’d first arrived at the base camp. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel any anger at the soldier, but rather a sharp stab of sympathy over his loss. He churned the idea of trying to exchange words with Evans in the cogs of his mind, deciding against it when the shadow that was Turner pealed out from behind a tent. Doing a double-take, he jerked his legs into a lengthened stride before breaking into a half jog.

Aidan hadn’t noticed Dean, and continued walking towards his destination of the covered foxhole that they’d sheltered from the rain in the other day.

“Hey,” Dean called out, apologising when he crashed into the broad shoulder of a tall blonde soldier. He felt the damning stares he was attracting from the other soldiers boring into his shoulder blades but he didn’t care. He was too intent on reaching Aidan and pursuing the line of questioning that he would have gone down yesterday. “Hey, I’m talking to you! OI!”

Having reached the Irishman he grabbed his thick shoulder, capturing his attention. Turner whirled around roughly in a cloud of dirt, one fist looking like it was about to become acquainted with Dean’s face half raised and the other clenched in the material of the photographer’s shirt. When the Irishman saw who it was however, the hard look on his face dissolved, being replaced by something softer and more open.

“What the fuck was that for?!” Dean gasped angrily, staring at the fist that was being hurriedly lowered back down to the soldier’s side.

“I-I…” Aidan exhaled heavily, guilt seeping through his posture as he released his hold on the shorter man. “Sorry, I didn’t- I thought maybe that it was one of the others and…” He sighed again. “Sorry,” he repeated quietly.

Dean eyed him cautiously. “What the hell’s got you so wound up?”

The soldier rubbed the back of his neck distractedly before shoving his hands in his pockets. Dean noticed that they were trembling slightly. The dark-haired man’s arm movements dislodged his shirt a fraction, the chain around his neck peeking out and winking at the photojournalist in the sun.

“Nothing,” he said, his eyes flicking away from Dean’s sharp gaze.

“Now who’s dicking about?” the New Zealander threw back.

Aidan swallowed. “I wasn’t, I- ”

“Oh, bullshit, Aidan,” Dean snapped. “Don’t lie to me. For God’s sake, you were about to punch the lights out of me.”

The muscles around Aidan’s jaw twitched and he ducked his head, his furrowed brows hiding his anxious eyes. “I wouldn’t have hit you,” he answered, still not making eye contact with the smaller man in front of him. “I- I…”

Dean raised an eyebrow and folded his arms defensively across his chest. There was a stirring deep inside him that was the source of his new-found confidence around the Irishman, this new ability of his to aggressively bicker and (partly) speak his mind to the soldier without nervously stuttering over his words or worrying that (like about thirty seconds ago) he’d be met with a physical and violent response from the muscular man. Most likely it stemmed from his bitter disappointment and realisation of reality – both of which had come in the form of a simple gold ring and a small black and white photograph. But Dean also couldn’t deny that it had also manifested from Aidan’s unintentional omission yesterday, about being confused by the photojournalist and not knowing how to act in his vicinity. He was a curious man by nature, and like every human being, the slight vein of vanity in his brain was determined to find out the meaning of the dark-haired soldier’s Freudian slip.

A sigh strangled by Aidan’s vocal chords punctuated the silence, and he scuffed his boots against the crusty mud that had been hardened by the sun. Dean couldn’t help but notice that in that moment a young boy stood before him, with a nervous strain tightening his muscles and creating a rigid effect throughout his body. Licking his lips nervously, he finally admitted quietly, “That whole thing with Barnie yesterday – it’s got me on edge.”

A heavy sigh of air escaped Dean’s lungs. “That’s one of the first things you’ve said to me just then that I actually believe,” he acknowledged, the aggressive tension in his own body deflating.

“It just,” Aidan began again quietly. “It could have easily been Adam. Or- ” But he held himself back from finishing his sentence, eyes roaming over Dean’s face.

Dean let the silence hang between them for a few moments, letting the quiet sounds of the camp of soldiers wash over them and attempt to repair their edgy attempt at a civil conversation. “You said yesterday,” he started. “You said…. That I confuse you.” At this, Aidan stared determinedly down at his boots. “What did you mean by that?”

The Irish soldier shrugged his shoulders in a vague manner. His silence continued in a similar fashion for a few more seconds, and Dean nearly thought he’d avoid he question entirely and divert the conversation onto a completely different matter. But after his slight hesitation, Aidan spoke, and when he did, it was with a soft nervousness – completely opposite to the aggressive nature of an outsider he portrayed around camp.

“You’re different from all the others,” he said. “You don’t treat me like they do, but more like...”

“An actual person?” Dean suggested, raising an eyebrow.

“… a mate.”

 And there it was. Aidan’s quite admission. The open, innocent-little-boy expression had slid back on his face, and the soldier stared at the New Zealander earnestly while biting his lip. “I don’t know why you do that when you’ve obviously been told things by the others.  Just like I don’t know how to respond to that treatment when the only other person who’s shown any interest in getting to know me is Adam. Everybody else… it’s like I’m the shit on their shoe.”

“And why wouldn’t I treat you like I do?” Dean asked. The heat was bearing down on them, sweat collecting in the small of his back. The collar of Aidan’s shirt flapped gently in the hot breath of air that swirled the dust at their feet.

“Because I’m dangerous!” Turner exclaimed, gesturing wildly at himself with his arms. “Because I’m an unpredictable suicidal martyr that’ll get the whole squad killed!” His eyes flashed darkly.

“Do you really believe that?” the photojournalist asked, unable to sop his eyes running up and down the length of the Irish soldier’s muscular body. And _oh_ _wow_. “Or is that what the other soldiers have said for so long that you’ve become a self-fulfilling prophecy, behaving like the label that they’ve given you?”

Turner didn’t answer, eyes clouding over as he dropped his hands back to his side.

The blonde man continued, taking a small step closer to the soldier. “Do you know what I think?”

The other didn’t say anything, but Dean could see the tension beginning to seep into his muscles again, the way his posture subtly changed into something more domineering. He knew that he was stating to step into dangerous territory, but _God_. His stomach gave a funny twist. That intense glare of Turner’s was fucking sexy. When he wasn’t planning, perhaps, to commit murder, that was. 

“I think that maybe you’ve held on to this persona, this strong, tough exterior of a martyr for so long and kept with their idea of what and who you should be that you’ve forgotten yourself. Because I’ve seen you with Adam – hell, you’ve even been reasonably nice and civil to me – so I know that you’re capable of being a decent human being.”

Turner’s face was growing more and more dark, more and more closed off as Dean kept talking, and  - _shit_ , maybe he’d gone too far and the other man was about to pull an Evans on him. There was an uncomfortable jerk in his stomach as the taller man stepped into his space, looming over him. And then they were close enough that they were nearly nose to nose, Dean having to tilt his neck back slightly. It reminded him of that first patrol, where Turner had grabbed his shirt and blatantly threatened him if he hurt Adam in anyway. Only this time, the Irishman wasn’t acting for his friend – he was doing it for himself, and that made him even more dangerous.

“You have _no idea_ ,” he growled – and he was physically shaking – “what you are talking about. I thought you’d have learned by now stop making _fookin’ assumptions_. You have no right _at all_ , so don’t you _dare_ … You can’t possibly imagine what’s happened to me, what I’ve had to live through.” He lowered his eyes, leaning in further to whisper in Dean’s ear with his lip curled in a snarl. “What makes you think I’m pretending? Maybe I was always like this, but I never knew it. Maybe the jungle took my soul, made me one of its own. You see, we’re all a little … _wild_ out here.” Dean gulped imperceptibly, inhaling the heavy scent of Turner unconsciously. “This is me now, and nothing or no one could _ever_ change that.” He pulled back, blinking to raise his eyes to Dean’s once more. Their eyes remained locked for a long, drawn out few seconds, neither of them willing to be the first to break away. His lip still curled, Turner started to back away slowly, eyes visibly running up and down Dean’s body. But it wasn’t the kind of body-running that Dean got at some of the seedy bars he’d visit on Friday nights in LA from men in the corner. No, it was more like a predator sizing up its prey.

“You stay away from me for a while, O’Gorman,” Turner called, still keeping Dean in his narrowed gaze as he made his thinly-veiled threat. “You come near me and you might make me do something I’m gonna regret.” And then he was gone, the swirling dust swallowing him up into nothing more than a khaki shadow in the belly of the beast – this Godforsaken camp of neglected soldiers on the other side of the lonely world.

*****

Adam was right, and around midday, a helicopter landed in a nearby clearing. It was met by two of the soldiers, Anderson and McKee, who grabbed the crate it offered that contained both a parcel of letters and other mail for the soldiers, as well as a fresh batch of supplies. When the two soldiers struggled back into the main centre of camp, a swarm of men descended on the wooden crate, eager to consume the latest letters from their loved ones back home. Adam hung back on the periphery of the action, preferring to wait his turn. Dean stood beside him, but there was no sign of Aidan. The New Zealander had felt sure that he’d be here – perhaps to see if there was a letter from his… wife.

“Hey, Brown!” one of the men called out, twisting his torso around and reaching out to Adam. “There’s a couple for you.” There were two letters in his hand, one substantially thicker than the other, and Adam gratefully took them from the soldier.

“Thanks, Sammy,” he said, his voice quiet, but sincere. He turned to the thicker letter first, savouring the elegant cursive handwriting that could only belong to a woman that was stamped across the envelope. Then he peeled open the back, pulling out the sheaves of paper and devouring the contents, moving across camp distractedly as he read.

One of the other men stilled as he pulled out a bunch of letters that were bound and tied with a brown piece of string.

“What you got there, James?” the brown-haired ‘Sammy’ who’d handed Adam his letters asked.

Private James swallowed, his eyes falling to the dirt. “Letters from Barnie’s wife,” he said quietly. Immediately, all the others ceased their activities. James glanced to the side, holding the package out. “Someone should give these to Luke. He’ll know what to do with them.” None of the men made a move to grab the offered mail. The letters intended for a dead man. But dead men had no use for things like letters – their gaping eye-sockets could only bore holes through the paper and their still hearts could only act as paper weights for words once of worth that now collected dust and age like the latest fashion. James moved gaze to stare at a few of his friends. “Will?” he asked, stretching his hand out to McKee. The black-haired young man shook his head. “Smith?” He also declined, refusing to meet James’ eyes and even going so far as to shuffle cautiously backwards.

“I’ll do it.”

The soldiers instantly jerked their heads around to stare at Dean, who’d spoken. There was silence, then one of the men opened his mouth to say something, but Dean cut him off. “If nobody else has the balls, then I’ll do it,” he repeated firmly.

The Private sighed. “Here,” he said reluctantly, practically shoving the letters into the photojournalist’s hand like they’d burnt him. “Just- ” he began, grabbing Dean’s bicep with his hand as the New Zealander started past him and lowering his voice, “don’t piss him off, okay? The guy can be just as unstable as Turner when he’s emotional, and now that he’s grieving…” The man’s voice trailed off and landed in a clump of grass by his feet as he stared at the tree-line of the surrounding forest. Then his eyes landed back on the photographer, grazing his face and sizing up his body. It unnerved Dean, and reminded him of the similar look he’d received from Turner earlier. It made him feel like nothing more than a piece of meat being tossed around by lions. “Then again,” he added, “given the company you keep, maybe you are the best person to give Luke those letters.”

Dean narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything, not willing to risk another fight like the one with Williams. He simply held James’ gaze for a few defiant seconds before ripping his arm out of the soldier’s grip and striding across the camp.

The closer he got to the grieving soldier, the more nervous and wary he became. His mouth became considerably dryer as he went through the automatic process of lightly sinking down on the ground beside and just slightly behind Evans, making enough noise so that the soldier knew he was there but quiet enough so he wouldn’t be disturbed.  What the hell did he call the guy? ‘Luke’ was far too familiar for their… acquaintance, if you could even call it that. ‘Evans’ was too harsh and cold… Full army title it was then.

“Uhm, Private Evans?” Dean coughed awkwardly, clearing his throat. Evans barely even twitched in response, and Dean wasn’t totally sure that he’d been heard. Nevertheless, he decided to continue.

“Look,” he sighed. “I know that to you, I’m just the prick of a photojournalist who knows shit about nothing out here. But… I’m learning. I’m learning what it’s like in the jungle, what you guys have to do, and… and I’ve gained an incredible amount of respect for you soldiers. I’m sorry for the loss of your friend – I really am.” He fell silent, thinking it would be best just to get the next part over and done with. “That’s actually- well. The others thought you should have these.” He gently placed the letters by the toe of Evans’ boot, not pressuring the man to take them immediately, but turning it into a choice. “They said you’d know what to do with them.” The dark-haired Private didn’t even flinch, and the only sign that he’d heard Dean was the flick of his eyes down to where the bundle of pristine white letters lay in the grainy dirt. Knowing that he was probably not going to be welcome for much longer, the New Zealander stood, brushing the soil off his pants lightly. He turned, making to walk away, before a sudden thought struck him. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “About that day of the photographs. I shouldn’t have- I just…” He pressed his mouth in a thin line, cutting off his unfinished sentences. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. The he twisted back around and walked back into the middle of the camp.

Dean had no way of knowing that a single tear slipped from Evans’s glazed eyes and splashed onto swirling dirt beside the bundle of letters intended for a dead man.

*****

Though the men tried to hide it, they were all in low spirits after the death of Barnie, who’d been well liked and respected.  The influx of mail and supplies had helped to disperse the depressed air that hovered over the camp, but now that the excitement had worn off, the sense of grief and mourning had returned. So when Sergeant McTavish informed the slightly-diminished gathering of soldiers that he and a neighbouring commander would lead another joint patrol the following day, a lethargic tension that was mixed with a high dose of apprehension and general unease descended over the men.

Much to Dean’s surprise, he’d be joining the patrol too. The fact that the soldiers yesterday had been attacked by Viet Cong didn’t do anything to soothe his nerves, though McTavish was sure that there’d be no danger (hence, Dean thought, the reason for bringing along the vulnerable photojournalist).

Everybody was astonished to discover that Turner would also be part of the patrol of soldiers. Dean could read that the bald and ageing commander was not happy about that particular arrangement, especially given the last time Turner had been out in the field under his command, but he had reluctantly admitted that he was an extremely capable (‘if not dangerously unpredictable’ was the unspoken meaning in his gruff tone of voice) soldier who’d be able to fill the gap in man power.

And Adam? His only consolation prize was that at least he’d have the safety of his Irish friend accompanying him on the patrol. That was all he could ask for, and Dean could see the relief – painted as clear as day – on his face that was always so open and easy to read.

The young American soldier helped Dean gather his equipment and the necessary items he’d need for the trek the next morning in the warm sun of the ageing afternoon.  He didn’t say much, only pointing out various items and dismissing others. Finally, the New Zealand photographer couldn’t stand the strained silence any longer.

“What’s it like?” he asked, and Adam’s hands stilled from where he was buckling one of the flaps on Dean’s pack. “I mean, out there on patrol. I just- ” He exhaled heavily. “I just want to know what to expect.” It was the first time he’d admitted aloud the nervousness that was boring a hole in his insides, gradually working its way through the rest of his body and poisoning his mind with dangerous _what if’s_.

Adam started to shake his head. “Don’t expect anything. Then when something happens it won’t be a surprise.” His tone was quiet and laced with a strong dose of sobriety. Glancing up, he must have interpreted Dean’s more-than-slightly panicked expression at his words because he hastily added, “Look, I’m not going to say that anything will happen – Sergeant McTavish says it’s supposed to be relatively safe. But out here? Nothing’s really safe.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I’m starting to forget what it feels like, being safe. The jungle… it changes you. Permanently.” His words had died down into a fleeting whisper, and it was as if he’d forgotten he was talking to Dean, but rather to himself. He chewed his lip violently, white teeth digging down into the already torn and broken skin.

Adam’s impromptu speech did nothing to calm Dean or settle his anxiety, but he forced himself to nod and swallowed a gulp.

Ever the observant one, Adam exhaled a quiet sigh. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine.” He attempted a smile. “We’ll make sure of that.”

*****

The next morning dawned cold and clear. As he forced himself to eat the sparse amount of tasteless food he shovelled into his mouth, Dean was grateful for the gentle respite from the usual heat.  The men were quiet, but the cool made them slightly more energetic than usual as they hefted packs onto their backs and reloaded rifles, making sure to have plenty of extra ammunition some place that was easily accessible on their bodies.

The soldiers began to mill around Sergeant McTavish, waiting for him to deliver his orders. Most bewildering was the presence of Evans, who did not stray too far from his bald commander. He was quiet, withdrawn, and with a start, the photojournalist noticed that the men were keeping their distance as they glanced at him with looks normally reserved for Aidan. They were treating a man who had previously been one of their own like a live bomb.

Dean hoisted his own equipment over his shoulder, keeping one camera swinging around his neck for shots during the trek. Sensing a presence over his shoulder, he glanced behind him unable to stop his blue eyes from widening slightly with surprise when he saw Aidan flanking him. The Irish soldier was already fully equipped and wore his helmet over his lengthening curls. He met Dean’s eyes briefly and nodded, conveying a silent message that could have been an apology for the previous day. Then he raised his dark eyes to the sky, tilting his head back on his neck.

“Smells like rain,” he said, and Dean didn’t know if he was making an attempt at conversation or just stating a fact.

“Does it?” he asked with a noncommittal air, not wanting to acknowledge the previous day unless the other man did, but unable to pretend that nothing had happened.  He couldn’t smell anything, but then he looked at the green camouflage of the Irishman’s uniform, the way he was holding his body – tense, but not uptight; more like a coiled spring ready to jump at the slightest sign of danger – and realised that the soldier had been right about what he’d said yesterday – that he’d been out here for so long that he’d started to become part of the wild jungle. He was just another viciously invisible predator that skulked around in the foliage and cover of the jungle. Of _course_ he’d know the weather well enough to be able to fucking predict the daily forecast.

Turner only grunted, shifting his stance slightly and snapping his brown eyes back toward Dean.

Adam breathlessly joined them, exhaling a nervous, “You ready?” to both of the men. Dean swallowed his answer, choosing to reply with a simple nod. He was sure that he was a faint shade of green. “Hey,” the young soldier continued reassuringly when he peered at the photographer. “It’s gonna be fine. It’s a safe patrol, remember?” But he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as much as the New Zealander.

“Oi, Paddy!”

Turner’s head flew in the direction the shout had come from, and he growled at the cluster of soldiers near McTavish. A few were glaring at the man who’d spoken, trying to hastily amend the situation before things got nasty. Dean’s eyes strayed between the soldiers and the Irishman, who was roughly shouldering his arm out of Adam’s cautious grip. His thick eyebrows had descended into a line above his eyes, which had clouded over with anger.

“Aidan,” Adam said, and Dean heard a hint of desperation in his voice. “Aidan, just leave it.”

But the Irishman ignored his friend’s attempts to placate him, still staring daggers at the clump of American soldiers. His posture was stiff, and strained inhalations of breath were being forced into his lungs.

“Look, can we- can we not do this now?” Dean found himself saying. “I’d like to avoid as much bloodshed as possible, and I really don’t think those dickheads are worth it, Aidan. They only want a reaction – one they know you’ll give them.”

There was a short pause, then Turner exhaled heavily, his eyes dropping to his boots. His shoulders and back were still tense, an explosive amount of power ready to be unleashed at any moment, but somehow, Dean didn’t think that it would happen. Turner licked his lips, shaking his head slightly as he shot another poisonous glare in the direction of the rest of the squad of soldiers. A simple but shaky “Sorry,” was quietly pulled from his mouth, and his eyes grazed Dean’s almost apologetically. It was as if their argument hadn’t even happened.

“Um…” Adam stuttered glancing between his two friends. “We should probably go – they’ll be waiting for us.”

Aidan nodded, and the young American didn’t miss the hasty look thrown in Dean’s direction one last time before he moved off.

“Okay,” Adam said once Aidan was out of earshot.  He turned to face Dean. “So that was weird. What is going on between you two that I’ve missed?”

“Huh?” Dean asked, trying to keep his face relatively straight and free from betraying emotions. “Nothing’s going on.”

Raising an eyebrow, Adam gave Dean his best _I know you’re lying and I intend to find out why_ face, to which the New Zealander only cleared his throat, adding a hasty change of subject with “We should probably catch up with the others – they’ll be wanting to leave soon.” The young man frowned, not liking the withholding of information, but not pressing for further details.

They left camp shortly after that brief exchange, and in a similar fashion as to how they’d arrived – Dean fell in neatly behind Aidan near the front of the winding line of soldiers, while Adam was following him. The men were mostly silent, led by an immovable Sergeant McTavish, and apart from murmurs, the only sound was the small cacophony that was being emitted from somewhere deep in the jungle around them. The humidity was starting to take its toll on Dean as the day warmed; he wasn’t used to such weather. He took frequent gulps of water from his canteen, and it was more than half empty before Adam, with his ever sharp and watchful eyes, noticed and stopped him with a hand on his shoulder and a “Slow down, Dean. That’s the only water you get for the patrol, unless we encounter some other water supply.” Heavy rocks of guilt settled in the photojournalist’s stomach, adding to his nerves. He twitched at nearly every loud noise the jungle threw out, his crashing through the undergrowth creating more clamour than welcome, and Turner even glanced over his shoulder a few times, briefly staring at the blonde with his eyebrows raised before turning his attention back to the area in front of him.

Two hours later, McTavish’s patrol reached the arranged meeting point - the spot where they’d rendezvous with the other patrol. Dean collapsed, red-faced and exhausted, onto a nearby tree stump, his shoulders heaving with panting breaths. His shirt was drenched with sweat, and he debated between unbuttoning it and risking insect bites or leaving it buttoned and continuing to swelter.

Turner shot him a look as a few feet away, Sergeant McTavish used the radio that Private McKee carried. “You’re gonna have to do better than that if you’re gonna keep up wit’ us, O’Gorman,” he said. His tone was clipped and curt, something that Dean thought either had to do with the prospect of the other patrol combining with theirs or remaining feelings of bitterness.

Dean glowered at the forest floor, strewn thick with leaves. “Not… a bloody…. soldier,” he panted. “No…. fitness… training.”

Adam rested a hand on the photographer’s shoulder sympathetically. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “It’s pretty much downhill from here.”

“’Till it’s uphill on the way back,” Turner muttered under his breath, scuffing violently at the base of a nearby tree with his boots.

“Not helping, Aidan,” Adam reprimanded. The Irishman only kicked the tree harder.

Around ten minutes later, the other group of soldiers joined up with McTavish’s patrol. There was about fifteen of them, including their commander, which increased the size of the group substantially. Dean had previously amused himself by photographing the men as they stood around, tense and anticipating anything – Viet Cong, the other soldiers. Turner had been no different, and Dean had even managed to capture a couple of sneaky shots of the Irishman while Adam sat on a nearby log, talking to him in undertones.

A few of the men from the other patrol greeted the soldiers from Sergeant McTavish’s squad warmly, and Dean immeadiately picked them to be friends. A welcoming smile, a handshake, a one-armed hug – all of these moments made permanent by Dean’s camera.

The plan, which McTavish and the other commander had outlined briefly at their respective base camps, was to patrol nearby jungle that they themselves used as a pick-up point for supplies at various times. Because the American and other allied troops used the path often, it was supposedly relatively safe. But the two commanders and their higher-ups were taking no chances, what with the close call they’d encountered with Viet Cong yesterday. The trail they’d be traversing was a simple horseshoe-shaped one that looped back around to join up with itself, the first half being, as Adam had said, primarily downhill. The danger element, however, was that for large sections the soldiers would not have the luxury of much cover at all, needing to sprint for the sparse fringe of the forest that had been lightly cleared around them in the event of a confrontation. It meant that they could be picked off easily, and that was not something that sat well with Dean. All the soldiers around him but Adam, Turner and Evans seemed to be relaxed and quite calm as they made small-talk with their friends, while he only grew more apprehensive the longer they remained in one place.

One the opposite side of the clearing they’d stopped in, Evans was hunched against the rough bark of a tree, his dark head staring at the ground as he crossed his arms across his chest, gun leaning beside him. His whole body was on fire with tension, and his posture screamed for him to be left alone. Dean felt a pang of sympathy for the man who’d lost his best friend out here as the other soldiers clearly gave him a wide berth.

Then the order came to move out. With Sergeant McTavish and the unnamed (to Dean, anyway) other commander at the head of the line, the soldier stalked two-abreast along the track with their guns out, slipping into single file during times when the leafy path narrowed and became thin. There was no friendly banter now, no jokes or laughs thrown between the soldiers as they kept as silent as they could, trying to avoid detection. Adam and Turner were shoulder-to shoulder in front of him, while Mark was close enough that Dean could feel his breath on the nape of his neck.

Everything went fine until they started back the way they’d come.

They were three-quarters of the way back to where the two patrols had met when all hell broke loose. Dean didn’t know who, but one of the soldiers let out a strangled yell of warning before a gun shot rang out and he fell down dead, a red flower of blood blossoming across his khaki chest.

An icy fist gripped Dean’s heart, and he forgot how to breathe until the panic set in and he released his held breath of air, gasping and choking from oxygen loss while his mind screamed at his frozen body _to get the fuck outta there_ as the American soldiers began to fire back at the Viet Cong hidden in the undergrowth.

The incessant noise rang in Dean’s eardrums, and he made an unconscious grab for both men in front of him. Adam was pale-faced, wide-eyed and practically shitting himself as he fumbled with his gun. Turner’s animalistic survival instinct that the New Zealand photojournalist had previously observed shot into his body with the adrenaline that was bound to be coursing through his veins. He growled, the husky edge to his voice lost in the bloody fray that was unravelling before their eyes. A strong grip on both Adam and Dean, he practically threw them behind a tree, shoving them down into the dirt as he yelled at them to take cover. Somewhere between the string of both American and what was most likely Vietnamese curses being thrown into the air, McTavish and the other commander were screaming orders and directions to their men. Non-stop gunfire flew from both sides, bullets thickening the humid jungle air, and a medic from the other patrol was trying to apply hasty first aid to a wounded soldier from behind a fallen log while simultaneously launching grenades into the undergrowth the VC sheltered in. A radio operator lay on his stomach, shouting into the hand-held microphone. And all this, Dean noted with a startled shudder as Turner whirled around and fired off a round of bullets, happened in only a few seconds.

Perception of time still slow and hazy, the blonde photographer watched Adam still scrabbling with his gun, his hands shaking too much to use it properly. Gasps rocked his shoulders, and tears on his cheeks wiped away the streaks of dirt as they snaked down his face. Men were screaming, yelling, _crying_ out in pain as they were shot or died, and the only thing that made its way into Dean’s numb mind was Turner’s scrawls across the wall in the bunkhouse back at HQ:

_With our guns raised high, and the promise of a glorious death, we go down in a blaze of bullets and a haze of bloody red._

The Irish soldier swore loudly and colourfully to himself as he reloaded his gun before ducking behind the large tree trunk as a wild spray of bullets exploded into the bushes three feet away, pressing himself against the scratchy bark and, ultimately, Dean, but the other man was too shit-scared to notice.

 _For a martyr, he wasn’t doing much martyring_ , Dean thought stupidly to himself as his limbs refused to move, trembling and juddering with adrenaline at every new burst of bullets or deafening explosion. The air was clouded with a weighty balloon of dust and dirt, the taste of bloody iron on Dean’s lips as the body of an American soldier soundlessly flopped on the jungle floor to stare dead-eyed at him, flies already beginning to lick at the blood clumped around his mouth and forehead. The photographer felt sick, wanted to vomit – and Adam, Adam had finally got his rifle working, jerking a burning round of bullets out of the barrel with a coughing sob.

Then, in slow motion, Dean saw an apple-shaped object rustle through the air and land in the undergrowth around ten feet in front of them. Turner saw it too, on his feet before while it was still in the air and hoisting the blonde man to his feet with a muscled grip on the back of his shirt.

 “ _Go_ ,” he snarled, but Dean couldn’t rip his eyes away from the dead gaze of the soldier a metre or so away, nor could he force his frozen limbs to move. Violently, Turner pushed past him, yanking the unresponsive New Zealander into a robotic couple of steps and helping Adam up in a similar yet gentler way. Dean’s feet were rooted to the spot, the soles of his shoes seemingly sending out roots and keeping him grounded to the bare patch of dirt. There was a rustle as the grenade broke through the top layers of jungle plants, and every cell in Dean’s body once again screamed at him to leave – leave the tree, the camp, Vietnam – go, just _go_.

Or maybe that last part was the wild Irishman, his dark roar cutting through the madness. “For _fook’s sake, move it, O’GORMAN!_ ” And that was when Dean saw the whispered fable the other soldiers whispered about around the camp – the dangerous outsider with murder in his eyes and unpredictability stained across his expression, all held up by his thick dark brows that were drawn together.

Adam had already darted out and was sprinting for cover in a thicket of trees a hundred metres ahead, making jerking stops every now and then to prevent himself from becoming an easy target for the VC. Dean’s heart went out to the thin, stick of a man, hoping that he’d make it to his intended destination safely. Then he was pushed forward, his camera jerking back and forth around his neck and crashing heavily to his chest as Turner shot carelessly from the hip. His body vibrated with the recoil of the gun, but Dean could only feel the sharp thud of his feet hitting the ground one after the other in a messy attempt at a run.

They’d only made it twenty feet from their tree when the time-delay on the grenade ran out, exploding in a brilliant charge of soil, undergrowth and metal. Dean stumbled as Turner pushed him to the ground, scraping his palms and ripping the knees of his pants as he was thrown further forward and sideways until he was flat on the dirt with Turner beside him. His shoulder roughly scraped something large, and an echo of pain rippled sharply through the photojournalist’s body, but he was sure that death would be worse. There was more high-pitched and strangled screaming from men that came from behind them. Dean was certain that the debris and destruction caused by the VC’s grenade would rain down on their still bodies, sprinkling injuries over them like salt from a shaker, but then he realised that he was partly under a rotting log, and that Turner – although pinning him to the ground with his heavy forearms either side of his shoulders – was protecting what would have been the exposed side of his body with his own. Dean’s lagging brain took the time to chime in with the unwelcome thought that though the blonde had imagined being restrained by the Irishman, he hadn’t exactly thought that it would be in this type of scenario.

His ears rung with an artificial silence that the explosion had produced, quiet but for the high-pitched whining that sounded out like a siren in his head. His camera was pressing awkward against the back of his head, somehow still safe and intact, but he couldn’t move – half underneath Turner, who kept his head twisted away from the falling fragments of rubble, twisted towards Dean – and the photographer gulped as he could only stare into the violence-hazed brown eyes of the Irishman awkwardly, staring at the amber flecks ringing his irises. The helmet sat haphazardly on the other man’s growing curls, covering most of his face in darkness with the exception of his glinting eyes. The soldier said something – or maybe he mouthed it, the New Zealander wasn’t too sure with his ears still ringing – and after a drawn out minute or two when rubble had stopped falling, Turner rose to a crouch, shifting off Dean and wrapping his hand around the other’s bicep to pull him to a similar position. He was definitely talking now, but as Dean slowly regained his hearing, he could only hear snatches as he shook his pounding head.

“… cover – trees – they won’t…. Adam – us…  – keep behind… O’Gorman – I say – don’t stop – fookin’… – _run_!” The Irishman’s speech was garbled and thickly accented, and even with his poor hearing, Dean would still have had difficulty understanding him over the roar of guns that were still being fired.

 A shadow fell over the spotted sunlight that streamed through the outer layer of the leaves that stretched to the sky, and Turner followed his gaze briefly up to an American helicopter that was creating a whirlwind with its rotating blades. It didn’t look to be landing, however, and Dean saw Turner’s lips move silently in a snarl as he muttered to himself. Then he was up on his feet, hauling Dean and his limp limbs up with him as he reached for his gun.

Dean saw the Viet Cong soldier before he heard the gun shot.

He still didn’t know what made him chance a quick glimpse across the bloody carnage of the path where battle was still raging. But there he was, hidden behind the scope of his rife, his floppy jungle-type hat blending in with the foliage around him. Logic told him to run, drop to the ground or to at least _fucking move_. But even with enough adrenaline flooding his veins to lift five damn cars off a trapped baby, his body became immobile. Time once again slowed down around him, and he saw the imperceptible squeeze of the trigger by the man’s finger.

There was a booming sound in his now-working ears, but before he could think, a khaki blur that was Turner was tackling him to the ground viciously, using his heavy body as a weight in order to produce some form of movement out of Dean’s.

They landed on the ground hard. Dean heard the Irishman grunt and could smell the sweat on his body as they rolled, the dark haired man taking the brunt of the fall on his shoulder with a harsh impact. Lying flush on top of Turner, Dean was flung off in the movement, continuing the rolling motion until he landed on his back behind the soldier, camera awkwardly flying to the ground. There was dirt in his mouth, his eyes, and his body was shaking with an overflow of shock and sheer fright even as he lay still on the dirt. But even he couldn’t mistake the stifled and guttural groans that were coming from the tense soldier beside him, who had turned himself on his side. Scratching in the moist earth, Dean finally got his limbs working properly as he struggled to his knees, hands reaching for the shoulder of the Irishman, pulling at the taunt sleeve stretched over muscles until he could roll the other man onto his back. When Aidan’s spine hit the ground he let out a slightly-louder noise of pain, his eyes welling with agony as he grimaced, gritting his jaw as he stared up at Dean.

But the New Zealander could only stare in a mounting panic at the growing stain of blood that was spreading across Aidan’s chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find this chapter's picture [here](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/67040577529/source-dean-ogorman-a-radio-operator-lay-on#notes), and... please don't kill me for the ending of this chapter???


	9. 8 - A Stubborn Rebellion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vietnam War!AU. Photojournalist Dean O'Gorman is sent to Vietnam on assignment to capture the daily horror and reality of the war, as well as the brave soldiers who have put their lives at risk for such a cause. He is placed with a contingent of men led by Sergeant McTavish, and befriends a young Private by the name of Adam. Also part of the small squad of soldiers is Adam's friend Private Aidan Turner, a wild and dangerous Irishman who is shunned by the rest of the soldiers for his unpredictability, lack of obedience to his superiors and suicidal tendencies in battle. Ignoring the soldiers' warnings, Dean soon finds himself being inexplicably drawn to the haunted enigma of a man, who just may be his only chance of survival if he wants to return home physically unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been so, so, so, SO LONG, and I do sincerely apologise. Computer issues, writer's block and a busy school schedule are all to blame. I know that so many of you have been waiting for what feels like an eternity but IT'S FINALLY HERE!!!! I can only hope that it is well-worth the ridiculous wait. Ideally, I would like this chapter to be a bit longer, but I figured it was a good place to leave it off. XD
> 
> (Also, let's play 'spot the modern!durin bros'...)
> 
> Thanks, to Mab, my other-half for the beta job and listening to me complain about the never-ending writer's block. :D

Dean’s panic rose inside him like helium balloon, thick in his throat. “No,” was the only thing he could say. “No no no no  _no, God no_ .” And like the effects of a helium balloon, his voice grew higher pitched than normal and slightly squeaky. “Fuck,” and panicking, he glanced around wildly as he ripped his camera from around his neck and pushed his hands down over the majority of the blood flow, trying to keep pressure on the wound. Aidan’s muscles tensed under his fingers - or maybe that was another spasm of pain - and o _h God_ , this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

Coughing weakly, Aidan sent a trail of blood sliding from the corner of his mouth. “Don’t,” he said faintly. His face was growing pale. “Martyr, r’member O’Gorman?”

“ _Fuck you_ ,” Dean glared at him. He increased the pressure on the wound and the Irishman winced, groaning again. “I am _not_ having your death on my hands, you bastard.” The blood was coming fast, and the New Zealander’s – and perhaps Aidan’s – only consolation was that the wound wasn’t near his heart, but on the opposite side of the soldier’s chest. Even so, the bullet injury was beginning to take its toll on the man. Dean didn’t know if it was fatal or not – _Oh God, please let it not be fatal_ – but already Aidan’s face was paper-white and his breathing was becoming progressively shallow as the seconds ticked on. Sweat began to pepper his face in beads of moisture.

And that was when he realised that the world had grown silent around him.

“Help!” Dean cried out hoarsely. “Fucking _somebody_ help me, _dammit!_ ”

He could hear the murmurs of the soldiers still alive and the faint gurgles of the dying and injured, and then there was a strangled yelp. Dean felt his heart sink and knew even without turning around that it had come from Adam. The slight man came galloping over, uncaring about any more potential invisible dangers, sliding to his knees in a shower of dirt and damp leaves. Aidan hadn’t noticed the arrival of his friend yet, focusing his slipping attention on trying to feebly bat at Dean’s arms.

“Don’t…” he mumbled heavily as he coughed again, more blood spilling over his lips.

Adam was teary again at the sight of his friend, and Dean thought that he was just going to kneel there and cry over the weakening body of the soldier, but then he cracked a sharp slap across Aidan’s stubbled cheeks. His head lolled slightly, brown eyes fighting the growing weight of his eyelids to snap open and stare up at the young American with a wince.

“Don’t you _dare_ do this to me, you _prick_ ,” Adam shouted desperately. “Not _now_ , of all times!”

“A-Adam,” Dean broke in when it looked like the soldier would continue to verbally abuse the Irishman. His voice sounded a lot calmer than he felt, and his eyebrows lifted incredulously at the unusual outburst from the thin man. “Now is _not_ the time – I need you to help me out here, I need you to find bandages or _something_ \- ”

Dimly, out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw a figure round the tree and hastily shout “Over here!” before disappearing, but he had no time to ponder the appearance as Aidan continued to moan under his hands and Adam’s shaking fingers searched his pack for a something they could use. The Irishman limply wrapped his hand around one of Dean’s forearms, small jerks attempting to pull the photographer’s hands off the seeping wound. In response, Dean took one of his hands off the wound, squeezing tightly around Aidan’s wrist and crushing the bones together. At the uncomfortable pressure in his hand, the man twisted his face.

“Stop ‘t,” he muttered with another tiny pull at the blonde man’s arm.

“No, _you_ stop it,” Dean growled. He clenched his bloody hand tighter around his wrist as he spoke, taking small pleasure in the fact that for once, he had the upper hand over the strong, dark-haired soldier. “I don’t give a fuck if _you_ wantto die, you bloody bastard, but that’s not what _I_ want, and at the moment, you _are not_ in any position to make that decision.” Aidan’s hand went limp, and Dean all but threw his arm to the side out of the way as he returned to placing pressure on the soldier’s chest. He tried to ignore the bracelet of blood around Aidan’s wrist, passed on from his own hand. By now Adam had found a spare shirt, bundling it up and handing it to the New Zealander, who removed his hands and quickly pushed the shirt down in their place.

And then the medics appeared from nowhere, a stretcher in their hands and a large box of medical supplies beside them. Dean and Adam were pushed roughly out of the way as the field paramedics set about to do their job. They stood up, Dean’s hands covered in Aidan’s blood and hanging limply at his sides. Adam clutched at his elbows in an attempt to embrace himself. Dean would have hugged him, but he didn’t think that the American would welcome the sight of his friend’s blood on his clothes in the form of red handprints. 

The medics talked amongst themselves in low, rushed voices, occasionally saying something to Aidan. The scared little boy was back all of a sudden – Dean could see his brown eyes flickering through the gaps between the medics, searching for himself and Adam, his gaze locking onto their faces like a homing beacon. Then, with something between a strangled and hoarse groan, Aidan was being lifted onto the stretcher, raised into the air, the strong medics with their rolled shirtsleeves starting to move carefully and quickly back on to the path towards the helicopter. Dean wondered why he hadn’t heard the growl of the chopper before.

Sergeant McTavish was there, white-faced with a heavy sheen of sweat layering his face and blood flecking his clothes, but otherwise seemingly uninjured. His gun was held loosely in his hand, and he grabbed Dean by the scruff of his shirt neck, giving him just enough time to wrap a bloody hand around the strap of his camera, before shoving him in the direction that the medics were moving with their injured cargo. The photojournalist had a sudden flashback to Turner doing a similar thing earlier, and resented the bald sergeant manhandling him.

“Hey!” He scowled heavily as he stumbled onto the path, sobering immediately when the extent of the damage was unveiled. Bodies were everywhere – either dead or alive or injured, though none of the injuries (while still severe) were as bad as Aidan’s. The surviving soldiers were clumped together, some of them squatting next to where their wounded comrades were slumped against trees or logs, offering them water or reassuring words. Dean’s legs slowed to a stop as he took in the carnage, swallowing the bile that found its way in the back of his mouth and trying to avoid looking at the bodies of the dead. Young lives extinguished as quickly as the flame of a candle being blown out, their ghosts already beginning to haunt this place like the wisps of smoke that lingered afterwards.

Adam was following Aidan and the medics, and Dean was roughly pushed once more in the same direction by McTavish. Disappearing from view when they turned a corner, the New Zealander realised that the medics weren’t too far from the helicopter. They broke into a crouching run as the noise the rotating blades made became amplified.

“I want you on that damn helicopter as well,” the sergeant rumbled at the blonde man. “It’s too dangerous, and I’m not going to risk the lives of my men for a vulnerability that could be prevented. I want you out of this fucking war zone _now_ , and by God if you don’t get on that chopper willingly, you’ll be on it in a stretcher next to that sonuvabitch Paddy, _do you understand_?”

They were close enough to the chopper that the blades created an artificial tornado of wind that whipped Dean’s hair into his eyes and tore at his clothes. His breath hitched and his Adam’s apple bobbed in an inaudible gulp as he stuttered out a “Yessir.”

Aidan was already in the helicopter when Dean got to the open side. Adam was still there, staring into the gloomy interior and never once taking his eyes of the injured form of his friend. Dean paused, turning to the young man.

“He’ll be okay,” he said, half yelling to make himself heard over the chopper’s engine. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t- I’ll get him back to you.”

Adam only pressed his lips together tightly as he forced a nod.

“Hey,” Dean said, a kind expression on his face, “I’ll see you soon, yeah? Everything will be alright.”

“Dean,” the American began.

“I promise,” the photojournalist continued, cutting the other off. Dimly, he was aware of a looming McTavish in the background, and he wasn’t sure how much more time that warranted. “I’ll see you again sometime,” he repeated. “Take care of yourself okay? You’ll be fine.”

Adam drew blood from where he’d been biting his lip. He nodded again as Dean climbed into the body of the helicopter that was waiting impatiently. “Dean,” he called, reaching out to clasp the blonde’s forearm. He hesitated. “Thank you,” he finally finished.

The New Zealander smiled in return. He opened his mouth to tell the soldier he was welcome, that it was fine, but then he was pulled back into the metal body of the helicopter and Sergeant McTavish was dragging the thin American away, melting back into the invisibility of the treeline as the machine began to rise into the air.

Dean turned his gaze back to Aidan as the helicopter hovered above the tree-tops, gravitating towards the flight-path the pilots had chosen, the flight path that would lead to a field hospital, undoubtedly. He was surprised to find the hazy brown eyes of the wounded man staring back at him. Aidan’s eyes never left Dean’s face, even with the confined bustle of the medics working on his bleeding body. With his sharp eye for detail, the photographer noticed the collecting heaviness that gradually weighed down the soldier’s eyelids – each blink becoming lazier and lower than the last – but that did not prevent the Irishman from clutching at Dean’s gaze with the type of desperation that only the injured and dying had, treating this last familiar shred of company like it was oxygen.

Aidan was unconscious by the time the chopper landed.

*****

It was pure and utter chaos when they landed at the field hospital’s helipad of dirt. There was no other way that Dean could describe it. The sense of urgency of the medics unloading the injured Irishman had not diminished from when they’d loaded him into the medivac. If anything, it had only intensified, and the New Zealander found it hard to keep up with the sprinting paramedics as they entered the hospital. He watched as Aidan was transferred to a gurney, the medics informing doctors who’d seemingly appeared from all directions on the condition of the unconscious soldier.

“Sir- ”

Dean was accosted by a nurse as he tried to follow the doctors and the medics. They were wheeling Aidan into the theatre for surgery, and the level of concentration and professionalism that they radiated was intense. The blonde man knew that the soldier would be safe in their hands, knew that the doctors had perhaps seen so many other injuries that were worse or even similar. He tried to reassure himself that everything was fine due to the fact that the bullet location was not near the heart of the darkhaired man, but. There’d been _so much blood_ …

“No, I have to- that’s my friend, I’ve got to make sure that- ”

“Your friend will be fine,” the nurse said, and her tone was firm, leaving no room for argument.

Dean was never one to submit to authority in moments of panic or at times when he believed himself to be in the right. “No, you don’t- I _need_ \- ”

“No, sir, I’m afraid you _need_ to stay out here. You’re unable to scrub in, nor would you be anything but a hindrance.” She cast the camera that was in his bloody hand a scathing look. “In the meantime, you’ll have to wait until,” her eyes flickered to the theatre, where the bustle of doctors working around Aidan’s motionless body could be seen through the circular windows in the upper half of the swinging doors, “your friend comes out of surgery.” Her words were punctuated by frantic yelling from inside the surgery, and Dean’s heart leapt in to his throat as the surgeons and doctors increased their agitated actions. He made to move forward, his legs behaving of their own accord, but the strong pressure of the nurse’s meaty hand digging into his chest as well as the hard look in her eyes prevented any further exploit.

A pointed glance at a clump of chairs lining the makeshift walls of the hospital before the beginning of what Dean presumed were the more ‘critical’ patients – a hastily constructed ICU, with no real differentiation between where it ended and the general recovery area began – and a strong shove in their direction made the nurse’s silent order clear. Tentative, reluctant steps forced his body over towards the chairs, and when his back was fully turned to the sturdy nurse, he sent a disparaging look her way. She returned it with one of her own, and Dean sat, feeling like a schoolboy that had been sent to the headmaster’s office. Staring down at his bloody hands that were twisting and scrunching the strap of his – amazingly – still intact camera, the New Zealander settled down for a long wait.

*****

A young, pretty nurse came over to Dean shortly, offering him a dish of water and a hand towel. She said, “I thought you might like to clean up a bit,” as she motioned with her head. Her smile was shy, hidden behind her soft American accent.

The photojournalist offered her a thankful grimace. “Thanks,” he said, setting his camera down safely between his feet. The sight of Aidan’s blood on his hands made him more than uncomfortable – a nauseous churning in his stomach that only served to remind him that the man was sprawled on an operating table in the next room. The water turned an ugly rust colour as Dean erratically scrubbed at his skin with a bar of soap, rendering it numb and raw, but still with a faint red tint to his palms.

“You don’t look like a soldier,” the nurse said, tilting her head from her seat next to him and glancing down at his camera. “Not with the way you were clinging on to that before.”

Dean buried his hands in the white towel he’d placed on his leg, twisting the coarse material savagely as he dried his skin. Aidan’s blood left a light pink stain on the white fibres. The blonde man winced as he vainly tried to not think about the way the strong Irish soldier had become so fragile in those moments before the paramedics had entered the scene. “No,” he answered slowly. “I’m not.”

The young nurse angled her body towards Dean, resting an arm on the back of the chair and curling a stray wispy ringlet around the forefinger of said arm. “So, what are you then?”

“I’m a photojournalist,” he said flatly. “I was sent out here on assignment to be placed with a bunch of troops. It was _supposed_ to be safe.” Dean couldn’t help but to raise his eyebrows as he stressed the word ‘supposed’.

“Well,” the nurse shifted her position, “what happened?”

He just looked at her. “Same thing that got the other soldiers in this place. The Viet Cong found us.”

“What’s it like out there?” she asked finally, after she’d let a silence fall between them. “I mean, apart from when I got here, I’ve never been outside these walls.” Her words were punctuated by her eyes flicking around the inside of the field hospital.

Dean hesitated. “Like nothing you’ve ever experienced before,” he eventually said.

The nurse tried to drag him into further conversation, but she eventually grew tired of his simple, disinterested answers and left him sitting by himself with the excuse of needing to start her rounds to check the bandages, taking the towel and the dish of water with her.

And the wait continued.

*****

With nothing else to do, Dean fell into a light doze, his body dragged down by all the previous nights of little sleep. He didn’t know how long he slept for, nor did he feel particularly refreshed when he was jerked awake by the unintentional _bang_ of the swinging doors of the operating theatre as they were pushed open. Dean couldn’t remember ever jumping to his feet, but suddenly he was standing, watching as a metal hospital bed was wheeled out of the surgery. A man lay unconscious on the mattress, swathed in white sheets that reached his hips, and the only colour came from the dark strands of hair that fell across the pillow messily. Aidan was shirtless, a bandage wrapped around his abdomen. His face was gaunt and pale. It melted into the overpowering _white_ of the whole scene, and with the near-black of his hair, provided a brilliant contrast. The soldier was a black and white photograph in a world of colour, and that image was melded into Dean’s mind forever.

Aidan’s limp body was rocked and jolted slightly as the wheels of the bed ran over the uneven floor, but still the soldier slept on. The photographer didn’t know if it was of his own accord, or whether it was traces of the drugs the doctors had most likely given him that were still keeping him unconscious. Again, his legs moved, sending him hurrying after the nurses that wheeled the bed along. Luckily Dean didn’t have too far to follow, as they swung the bed gently, pushing it back against the wall in an empty place in the ICU section.

He came to a stop by the side of Aidan’s bed, his camera slapping repeatedly against his leg with his motions. The noise drew the attention of the closest nurse, who was scrawling something on the clipboard that normally hung off the foot of the small metal bed. She raised an eyebrow as she cast a side-look at the blonde New Zealander. Her pen tapped out a final rhythm as she candidly asked “And who are you?”

Dean’s gaze broke off from where it had been following the shadowy sweep of Aidan’s eyelashes over his cheek, the slight parting of his lips as he drowsed on. “I- I’m his… friend,” Dean supplied, floundering around for a word that described their acquaintance adequately. He knew he’d used the term when they’d first been brought in, but with his foot-in-mouth disease and the hot-and-cold hostility of the Irish soldier, ‘friends’ was something that they’d never been, even with Adam’s attempts to draw them together. The strange relationship that they had had changed and developed the past few days into something volatile and indescribable, but once used, the term had fallen over the two of them like a loose net, capturing them within its grasp. Try as he might, Dean couldn’t think of another way to describe what they were.

The nurse’s eyebrows gave a slight twitch, and then her eyes ran up and down his body. He didn’t know what exactly her gaze meant, but she didn’t contest his statement, her sharp focus returning to scanning the clipboard in her hands.

“Is he going to be okay?”

Pursing her lips, the nurse didn’t look up from her clipboard. “I’ve seen worse wounds,” she said. “At least they didn’t have to amputate a limb – it’s never nice when that happens. The reaction when they wake up…” She looked away from her clipboard, shaking her head sadly. Then she lifted her eyes to stare at Dean. “That’s not to say it’s a _minor_ wound that your friend is suffering from. It’s still quite severe, and he lost a lot of blood.” She placed the clipboard back in its hanging position, and began to move off in the direction of the surgery theatres where a commotion was being caused by the bloody arrival of three soldiers, pausing slightly to stare back at Dean as a thought occurred to her. “Do you know how to administer CPR?” the nurse inquired, her gaze austere and piercing.

The answer was dry on his tongue. “Yes,” he said, casting his mind back to the brief first-aid course he’d been forced to take prior to leaving for Vietnam.

The nurse nodded, her appraising gaze sweeping over his face once more as shouts and medical instructions were rattled off behind her. “Good. If he flatlined once, it could happen again, and I can’t guarantee that someone will be instantly here if that happens.” Then she turned and walked briskly towards the new arrivals being ushered into the theatres on gurneys.

Dean felt the blood drain from his face in an instant.

*****

At some point, he managed to sit himself down in a chair that was next to the bed. His camera dangled loosely from his fingers, and he clenched them periodically, feeling the material of the strap cut tightly into his skin and prevent blood flow. Dean only released his hold when he couldn’t feel his fingers any more.

There was another visitor a few beds down, and Dean was grateful for his presence. It made him feel less embarrassed about being so obviously out of place within the bustling hospital setting. The soldier was broad-shouldered and blonde, his uniform stained and smudged with mud in places and one of his breast pockets ripped. His young face was aged by war and his nose was pink with sunburn. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, showing off muscled forearms.

The soldier was sitting beside a young, dark haired man, whose bed sheets were messily pushed down to reveal a raised and bandaged thigh. The dark haired man was pale-faced but sat leaning against the pillows and bed frame behind him, talking to blonde man quietly, but animatedly. There was a smile on his face.

Dean caught a snippet of their conversation.

“So they said you’re doin’ okay,” the blonde soldier said. There was the beginning of a relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The dark haired man chuckled softly. “’m fine,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I could probably walk outta here now, Phil, if I wanted.”

The blonde - Phil - snorted and settled back in the chair, crossing his arms and tilting his head back tiredly. “Not happening in your wildest dreams, bro,” he said. “You’re staying in that bed for as long as needed.”

The dark haired soldier pulled a face. “But I should be out there,” he protested, his head falling back weakly against the pillows. “I should be out there killing _them_ so they don’t kill _you_.”

A dark look clouded over Phil’s face. “You shouldn’t have to do anything in this fucking war,” he hissed angrily. “You shouldn’t even _be_ out here in the first place, you Goddamned idiot.”

There was silence, and then the injured man said quietly, “You’re not going to tell Mom, are you? That I’m here, injured.”

A jolt shot through Dean’s stomach as a burst of comprehension hit him. _They were brothers._

The blonde soldier fixed him with a steady look that showed little of the inner battle that Dean knew he must be wresting with.

“Don’t, Phil, _please,_ ” the dark haired man wheedled. “You know what happened when she found out I’d signed up to follow you.  If Mom knew I was injured, she’d come over here and beat the Viet Cong with her broomstick and then fly us out of here back home on _said_ broomstick.”

It failed to do anything other than cause a small twitch of Phil’s lips, but even then it could have been a muscle spasm. “Kieran,” he began, sighing. “ _Anything_ could happen out here. You know that she’d want to know – bad news or not. It was bad enough when Uncle Thomas came out over here.” He fell quiet. “Now both of her sons followed in the very footsteps she didn’t want us to. When Dad died- ” Then Phil stopped. He shook his head.

“We’re not going to die,” Kieran said firmly, reaching out for his brother.

Phil set his elbows on his knees, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands.

“We’re _not_ ,” Kieran repeated fiercely.

Phil’s shoulder’s shook, and with a start, Dean realised that he was crying. A lump rose in his throat, embarrassment heated his cheeks, and feeling ashamed for intruding on the private moment between the two brothers, he turned away, looking instead at the still-unconscious body of Aidan in front of him.

*****

When Aidan woke up, he did so quietly – with the exception of the low moan that passed his lips. Dean was startled into action, sitting up straight in the chair and leaning forward, ready to react to whatever the injured man did.

“Hey,” he said softly as Aidan struggled to blink his eyes open.

The Irishman didn’t hear him, and the blonde photojournalist saw the exact moment that the soldier started to panic. He tried to move, tried to thrash his limbs around to help himself rise to a sitting position. His face contorted with pain, and when his movement was limited, Dean realised that whatever drugs or sedatives the doctors must have given the soldier had turned his limbs to the weight of cement.

He half-raised himself out of his chair, placing his hands firmly on Aidan’s shoulders and pressing him back into the hospital mattress. “Hey,” he said again, “take it easy, yeah? Just relax. Everything’s fine, you’re okay.”

The dark-haired man stilled, looking up at him through glazed eyes, then a glimmer of recognition flickered like a candle flame. Aidan reluctantly let Dean help him lie back down. There was a choked groan from the soldier as the effort jolted his wound, and he closed his eyes. His face was pale.

“Go to sleep, okay?” the New Zealander said. “You’ll feel better when you wake up; it’ll help your wound.” He staunchly avoided looking at Aidan’s bare chest, certain that the flush that would undoubtedly rise on his cheeks would give him away.

Aidan sighed, the sound of a man weary with life and numerous burdens.

He slept.

*****

When Dean opened his eyes, the field hospital was considerably darker, heralding that night had set in. Still sprawled in the chair by Aidan’s bedside, his head was titled at an uncomfortable angle, and he blinked blearily at the ceiling. With a start, he realised that his mouth was open, and he quickly snapped it shut, rubbing his hand over his face before smoothing his palm over the crick in his neck. He hadn’t intended to sleep – and certainly not in a chair that uncomfortable – but…. Dean didn’t even remember closing his eyes. And after many nights of interrupted and little sleep, his body might have thanked him for the much-needed rest but his mind felt foggy and bogged down by drowsiness.

“You look like you needed tha’.”

Dean’s head whipped around, and with a start, he met Aidan’s gaze. Even drugged up on morphine his eyes still managed to pierce through the photographer’s body, and the soldier’s voice was husky, croaking with the effort of speaking.  He stared at the blonde man unabashedly.

Uncomfortable with the intensity of the gaze, Dean dropped his eyes to his lap, glancing up again at the Irishman – who was still studying his face – before quickly turning away. Injured soldiers coughed and groaned in their sleep – or lack of it – and bed sheets rustled softly.

“Yeah, well,” Dean began, but his voice broke, and he had to clear his throat to force the rest of the sentence out, “a week of no sleep will do that to you.”

They lapsed into silence. The New Zealander could still feel the weight of the soldier’s gaze as it roamed over his body, and he fidgeted uneasily in the stiff chair, his eyes passing over the some-what quieter scene of the field hospital’s night life. A fleeting thought swooped through his mind, and Dean resisted the urge to ask Aidan the question it brought with it. He scratched at his stubble, and then finally relented to the words that hung on the edge of his tongue.

“Why did you save me?”

The answer was bleak and despondent, and Aidan finally shifted his gaze from the photographer to the ceiling. “Too many lives have been lost already. Why should I be any differen’?”

“No,” Dean shook his head, frowning as his mind processed the words. He paused, waiting for the nurse that had appeared to give Aidan another dose of morphine and leave. Her shoes clacked on the floor softly as she walked away after shooting them both a small smile that was supposed to be comforting. “It wasn't just a matter of orders. If it was, you would have just pulled me out the way. _You took a bullet for me. You jumped in front of me_.”

Aidan closed his eyes with a bitter and tired sigh. Dark eyelashes framed pale cheeks, and then the Irishman stared at Dean again through half-lidded eyes, the pain medication already making him sleepy. “Don' yer remember that I'm a psychotic, suicidal martyr? That I only came out here to die?”

“You should know by now that I don't believe everything I hear.” Dean gave him a hard look, like Aidan should have known better. “I'm here now, aren't I? I could have just buggered off and begun making my way back to L.A. once the medical chopper arrived here.” There was silence, before Dean added hesitantly, “Besides, I don't think you wanted to die in that moment. You wouldn't have turned your body if you hadn't.”

Aidan rolled his head to the side, blinking up at Dean and frowning. “What're yer talkin' abou'?” he asked thickly. On the verge of a drug-induced sleep, his words were slurring, his accent thickening and making the injured soldier's words teeter on the edge of incoherency at times.

“You twisted when you lunged, catching the bullet in the right side of your chest rather than close to your heart.” Dean swallowed, trying and failing to avert his eyes from staring at Aidan’s bare and bandaged chest. He blushed as his eyes picked out details like the dusting of hair spattered over his pectoral muscles, the way the slim bones of the soldier's ribcage stood out when he took shallow breaths, or the muscle definition of his stomach and abdomen; perhaps even the sharp jut of hipbones, clearly visible due to the way the stark-white hospital sheets lay pooled and tangled at his waist. “Where it would have got me,” he added softly.

His near-black short hair splayed across the stretch of white linen that was the pillow covering, Aidan continued to stare up at Dean, his eyelids fluttering lower and lower with each gentle blink. “So why're yer still here?”  he murmured hazily.

“I…” Dean inhaled and exhaled deeply, unsure of where to look. He picked at the fraying sleeve of his shirt's khaki cuff as a soldier with an amputated foot and a stomach wound a few beds over coughed and hacked loudly. “I don't know,” he finally said, raising his head to return Aidan's gaze.

He blamed the lack of self-control brought on by the morphine for the way Aidan behaved next, sure that had the Irishman been in full control of himself he would have never have done what he did.

Tracing Dean's face with his medication-clouded brown eyes, Aidan moved his fingers gently, flipping over his hand to reach out to Dean. His fingers closed loosely around the photographer's wrist, an echo of his earlier attempts to bat the other man's hands away from pressurising his wound and preventing imminent blood-loss. The blonde photographer could only flicker his eyes back and forth between Aidan's soft hold on him and the sliver of iris visible under the soldier's rapidly-lowering eyelids.

“Dean,” he said, “I-I… Please stay. Don't go. I don't want you to leave.”

The last part was barely a whisper, and Dean widened his eyes in shock at the display of such unbridled emotion. He glanced blankly down at Aidan's fingers, beginning to slip as his grip slackened with sleep. He stared at the dirt underneath the Irish soldier's fingernails, his mind reeling. When he lifted his head, Aidan was still staring at him, fighting the clutches of sleep until he could be reassured that the New Zealander wasn't going anywhere. Unsure of what else to do, Dean easily removed Aidan's fingers from his wrist before threading their fingers together and squeezing his hand carefully.

“Don't worry,” he promised with another squeeze. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Aidan smiled then - a genuine smile that spoke of gratuity, comfort and relief - which Dean shakily returned, dazed at the transformation of the man in front of him, and watched as the Irishman closed his eyes fully and was overpowered by his body's need for sleep.

Their hands lay entwined on the covers, a stubborn rebellion against the act of war and all that it stood for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured it was about time something started happening. XD
> 
> Unfortunately, there are no specific photos that accompany this chapter, but I've posted some general pictures of hospitals and general things that are related [here](http://ladyzaniahstrangeling.tumblr.com/post/80248715125/while-these-pictures-do-not-relate-to-specific#notes). 
> 
> Massive thank you again to all my EXTREMELY PATIENT READERS!!!! (fingers crossed the next chapter won't take as long).

**Author's Note:**

> This is currently a WIP, so there may be periods of long waits between posting. 
> 
> Dean's photography - the inspiration for the prompt - can be seen [here](http://deanogorman.com/#exhibition).


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